


And I Wake Up

by Doodled93



Series: Fixing RTD's Sh*t For Him [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Torchwood
Genre: Alive Ianto, Alive Owen, Alive Tosh, Alive Toshiko, COE Fix-it, Canon compliant to end of Season 3, Children of Earth Fix-It, Confusion, Doctor Who References, F/M, FIx It, Faeries - Freeform, Fix-It, Forever Ianto, Humour, Knot the way you think it means, Knotting, Knotting wink wink, M/M, Mob Bosses, Mystery, Older Ianto, Owen swearing, Podfic Available, Podfic Welcome, Romance, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Spoilers, Strong Language, Superstition, Swearing, Tissues optional, Tissues suggested, Torture, Translation Welcome, Young Ianto, fixing RTD's shit for him, knots, questionable DNA information, strange happenings, thugs - Freeform, younger Ianto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:26:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 69,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doodled93/pseuds/Doodled93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 456 are Junkies. Highly intelligent Junkies, with lots of blissed out time in which to think up more ways to get their fix. Why would they gas a building full of people who may yet live to create more children? The gas is more than anyone knows, and its reaction to one Ianto Jones is more than anyone, even the 456, could have thought.<br/>Ianto has live next door to the Rift since he was born, and has encountered so many different kinds of energy that it shouldn't be a surprise that an Alien drug would have an extreme effect on him, but it is anyway. </p><p>So, the CoE ending is Bull. As is so many other things in the story, and that's why I made a fix-it. <br/>EVERYTHING is written without having seen season 4, so no spoilers there.<br/>BTW this is Complete! Sequel is now up!<br/>Aaaaand GO CHECK OUT Randompersonofdoom for her podfic of AIWU and love it as I do :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Radioactive by Imagine Dragons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/gifts).



> EVERY CHAPTER is 10K. (Or thereabouts) Please be patient :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I've done my own Fix-it. Hope you enjoy, and hope this is a new spin on what the gas the 456 uses actually is...  
> Read and enjoy, and know that until the end of November at least, I plan on only posting 10k long chapters. Next may be in the upper 9k, but in general, understand the small breaks in between for what they are.  
> Warning: Swearing  
> Also, the title of chapter 1 is a song that fits so well with this story idea of mine, as well as being a good song, so check it out :D  
> Enjoy :D

And I Wake Up

 

Chapter 1—Radioactive by Imagine Dragons

 

Ianto Jones died in Jack Harkness’ arms in front of the 456, his body shutting down as the air he so desperately gasped turned stale in his lungs, as whatever chemical in the air did it’s job.

Neither Ianto nor Jack could understand fully what the gas’s job was, though they guessed, and guessed right for the most part. The rest came as a bit of a surprise.

With Jack Harkness, it tried doing it’s job, thought it succeeded, but ultimately, one Jack Harkness would wake up a while later, the chemical absent from his body, and so its job was left unfinished. Jack would understand this the same way he understood that that bullet that had went through his heart a while ago had its job left unfinished. But he would be wrong.

With everyone else in the building, it did its job fully.

Not until well after the 456 were sent packing, would anyone know what, exactly it’s job _was_.

And the 456 wouldn’t know what, exactly, its gasses had done to one Ianto Jones.

The Gas would know—wouldn’t know how it happened, but it would know—but though there are several species of sentient gasses in the universe, this particular gas wasn’t one of them, and took its surprise with it into the void of dissipation.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Born August 19, 1983, in Cardiff, Ianto Jones grows up, has strained relationship with his family, and lives with normal neighbors—such as the Macmillans from two streets over—as well as one neighbor he didn’t know he had. The Rift. He leaves all this—the relationship problems, the known and unknown neighbors—after his Tad dies, and heads for London.

Ianto Jones had worked with Torchwood One for a number of years, has come into contact with a number of things both in and out of the archives, and is the only employee who knows 12 dialects of alien origin. This is partly due to being good with linguistics, partly due to his organized mind, and partly due to something else entirely.

He was there in 2007 when the barriers between realities were breaking down, he was there when bits of energy were breaking off, when the ghosts of the energy that made up the Cybermen broke though before their physical forms, and was only 50 feet away from the portal that would suck all that didn’t belong in this reality back through it though he wouldn’t hear about what that big whoosh of energy was until well after he’s secreted his half-converted Cyber-Girlfriend away from prying, damning eyes.

Soon after that, half-converted Cyber-Girlfriend Lisa Hallett in tow, Ianto Jones tries to get a job with Torchwood Three, back in Cardiff, back to his now mostly unknown neighbor, hoping to keep his girlfriend alive long enough to return her to normal.

He succeeds. In getting a job at Torchwood Three that is. He also helps bring in Myfanwy, a pteranodon he’d found soon after she made her way through the Rift.

So soon after she’d come through the Rift, Ianto doesn’t notice the faint smell of an old humidity, doesn’t notice the faint feel of tropical air, doesn’t even hear the faint sound of a thousand prehistoric life forms before they fade away, because his pulse is hammering loud in his head, and all he could think in that moment was “Oh my God, it’s a dinosaur.”

(He doesn’t think about the moment when his mind immediately went to drawn up childhood plans for catching a dinosaur for a pet, even when asked how exactly he managed to get Myfanwy from hunting sheep on the countryside to trapped in a warehouse. He also doesn’t say why he brought a bar of extra dark chocolate with him.)

He operates a fake Tourist Stand between acting as a glorified Tea-Boy and working to organize the mess that is the Archives (and secretly working on fixing his Cyber-Girlfriend, don’t forget), and decorates his new flat with things he thinks that Lisa might like for After.

He vaguely notices that Suzie is acting a bit odd, in that occasionally, when she doesn’t notice he’s there (which is often, he’s made sure no one really notices him), she’ll stare at one particular part of the Hub, some weapon storage units, and smile this strange, manic smile, but he doesn’t connect that to his own unnoticed staring towards Lisa’s room in the basement, a worried frown on his face.

Nobody else notices, either.

That’s just as well, really.

Except it isn’t.

Suzie is dead, and Ianto is the one to clean up topside.

There’s more blood than there should be. Ianto notices things like that.

He also keeps it to himself, though he keeps an eye on the shared glances Jack and the new girl exchange. Some of them aren’t charged with sexual tension, and with her being so new, this is strange when taking Jack into consideration. He thinks, and notices that someone, likely Jack, has tampered with the CCTV tapes, and thinks some more when he has the time. He’s good at keeping things to himself. Jack apparently is too.

Gwen less so.

Gwen Cooper provides a change, but people still don’t notice Ianto as much as they perhaps should, and when everything comes out (they think) about Suzie, Ianto frowns and stares, and thinks that perhaps if she’d talked to someone before this, things wouldn’t have gotten so bad.

For a while, he distracts himself in the Archives, and notices that more Retcon had been used in the last three years than could be accounted for, and wonders at the inability of the rest of the team to sign their names on a form when they need to alter a civilian’s account of certain situations.

It’s just as well that soon after that he’s helping look for a girl possessed by a deranged sex mist, and too busy to reflect on that thought, and certainly too busy to connect that thought with Lisa.

Ianto goes back to being invisible soon after that, and if he wasn’t thinking about talking to someone before things go badly with Lisa before, he certainly doesn’t think about it any further when he sees that people honestly don’t notice him. Even Gwen has stopped looking after him when he brings her coffee. He’s invisible.

Just as he likes.

But then he’s on four weeks leave, and Lisa, _Lisa_ …

Three and a half weeks left, and Ianto buys a membership at a gym, and starts running, because his apartment is full of furniture meant for Lisa. Lisa. _Lisa_.

One Week left, and Ianto is disgustingly healthy in a way that he and, and, had laughed about before, (Before) and he’s low on food at the apartment, so he goes shopping, and somehow makes his way to a fabric shop, and finds a big, horribly comfortable, lumpy, old couch in the front window of a used furniture store, and goes in.

He leaves after calling a moving company, and waits at the door of his apartment so they can remove the newer furniture from it to make room for the replacement old furniture, and somehow the dark, sturdy furniture works in a way that doesn’t hurt him so horribly. The sheets are boring and the same shade of crème as the walls, but Ianto can ignore that.

Jack comes by just as the movers are leaving with the plush, kind of uncomfortable modern sofa that Lisa would have loved, and frowns.

“Moving?”

He blinks at Jack a moment, confused, before shaking his head.

“No… Just moving furniture.” _Just trying to move on_ , he thinks. Jack nods as if he understands, and Ianto wonders a moment if Jack actually sees,

He’s back at Torchwood, back to eating take-out, but he’s still running, before and after work, and thinks that he might even be half as fit as he was when he was a teenager.

Even if it did mean he had to have a few of his suits retailored.

When Faeries are the next bizarre creatures he encounters, he wonders.

He wonders at many things, from Jack’s long looks at Estelle (and how does he tell Jack he’d gone to one of her presentations before? Even before Torchwood One? He doesn’t.), to Gwen’s considering looks when she sees the two together.

There had been a lot of blood, way back when.

Ianto continues to think.

He wonders at many things after, too, from Jack’s decision to give up one little girl for the sake of the world (could anyone have been able to make that decision? Ianto wonders at what his own choice would be, and thinks that the angry silence from the rest of the team is an admittance that they know it’s the correct choice, if not the right one, and certainly not one they like), and wonders at his own silence.

He’s experienced first hand that keeping his silence in situations like these come to worse conclusions than he could imagine, but Jack seems to have had such a time with the Faeries, Ianto didn’t want to bring it up.

Of course, Gwen mentioned her story.

She complains as she cleans up the spiral of flora in her living room, and when the rocks at the center are placed in a bag to be sorted, Ianto takes them back home, and places them on the small table next to his windowsill, seated next to the tied handkerchief. Back where it belongs.

It was something his Mum had told him about when his Nan died; explaining it softly to him as she carefully knotted a lace-edged handkerchief and set it on the mantle of the fireplace.

“It’s a way of remembering, Ianto, and a charm of protection. My Mam kept two for her own parents, and eventually this will go with the one I have for my Tad.”

Ianto hadn’t ever asked what it protected against, or how, because it seemed mostly like on of those bad-luck protections to him at the time. His Mum always did things like that. He heard from Rhi that Tad had said that she’d rubbed both of them down with a rabbit’s foot, “for luck”.

With Canary Warf, and Lisa, Ianto hadn’t felt terribly lucky, but he’d survived both.

So perhaps the irony is that a dead rabbit’s foot is lucky only in terms of survival.

But the rocks, they were something that Ianto had found on his own, little things stuck in a gutter down an alleyway, that a much younger Ianto found fascinating with their little cracks and natural pattern. They had, once upon a time, kept his attention for long enough that he forgot he was hiding from his Tad, but then when he finally was found, it was by his Mum.

THAT was luck.

But he’d wondered what they’d taken them for.

The Faeries, he means.

 Ianto woke up that night to a fluttering noise and a strange wind. Stun Gun in hand, he crept to his living room to see the closest thing to his childhood memory of what an alien looks like crouched by his window.

Three were three of them.

He cleared his throat, feeling awkward facing whatever the things were (were those wings? What…?) in boxers and a t-shirt. One of the things turned to look at him briefly, flat faced and what looked like moss growing between its piranha teeth, before looking back and murmuring something to the one next to it.

“Uh… who are you?” _What are you?_ He adds in his mind, but it didn’t seem polite. The he curses himself, because what if they were telepathic or something? Jack had mentioned species like that before.

 ** _“What is this? This is… What is this?”_** The voice was breathy and childish, and sounded like a cross between a dozen children reading lines at almost the same time and the rustle of leaves in the wind. The three things turned, the one on the right holding up his tied handkerchief, the middle and left one each holding two stones of the four that had once sat in a circle.

Ianto couldn’t tell the difference between the three, and didn’t know which had spoken. Well—he amended—the one on the left had sort of longer branch arms, and perhaps the middle had a larger head… maybe…

“Um, those,” he points at the two holding his rocks with the hand not holding his stun gun, “are rocks I found as a kid, and that,” he moves to point at the one holding his ‘kerchief, “Is a knotted handkerchief.”

And then Ianto had no clue what to say.

 ** _“They go Together like this, yes?”_** Asked the middle one, holding it’s two pieces of rock together, and turning so that the one next to it could do the same.

“Um, sure.” Ianto mostly kept them the way they were, and any time he had to move them he put them back in a way that looked right. “So… Coffee?”

All three stopped and looked at him, but Ianto kept his face neutral. Then they all started making a gagging, coughing, clattering, wheezing noise, and threw their heads back in a rather human gesture of amusement. Laughter, then. Well.

Strange aliens in his house (except he had a sneaking suspicion that they actually weren’t), fascinated with his rocks and tied ‘kerchief (and didn’t that add to that suspicion of his?), and he was at a loss as to what to do.

(“Ianto, things like these hardly ever make sense, but when they do, and it all points to what ‘ve been telling you, don’t go ignoring it. Now go get your sister and keep your nose out of the gutter. _Yes_ , you can keep those rocks of yours, but I’m boiling them in salt first, and _wash your hands! Ianto_!”)

Call Jack, perhaps. Torchwood in general, certainly.

But when he had to do group projects at Uni, he brought coffee for everyone the first meet up, and it worked. When he was first working at Torchwood One, Coffee was what got him through the awkward fumbling’s of getting to know the Archives.

Coffee always made things better.

Twiggy fingers trailed down his cheek, and Ianto jerked away despite himself, and nearly knocked into another one of the things.  A noise from above him made him look up, and saw the third one crouching on his ceiling, ‘kerchief held between it’s hands.

**_“You could have been one of Ours, You could be Chosen…”_ **

**_“You could have been Ours, Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Sad, Angry Little Boy, would you have come with Us?”_ **

Ianto didn’t know what they were talking about, and the two on either side of him were touching his arms, his face, and he wasn’t exactly touch-shy, but this was gtting a bit much.

**_“Why, Little boy…”_ **

**_“Sad Boy…”_ **

**_“Angry, Afraid Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Have We never noticed You?”_ **

**_“Never Ever… And Why?”_ **

**_“Yes, why?”_ **

**_“We would have come for You…”_ **

**_“We would have been Friends…”_ **

**_“Yes, the best of Friends…_ **

**_“You and Us…”_ **

**_“Us and Forever…”_ **

**_“The Very Best of Friends…”_ **

**_“Forever and Ever…”_ **

**_“But You’re not there… But what is This Little Boy?”_ **

**_“This… This Thing Here…”_ **

**_“It Twists and Twists…”_ **

**_“And has two ends like This…”_ **

They were all once again looking at the handkerchief, trading ends between three sets of hands, wings fluttering, clattering, and Ianto was creeping backwards, step by pain-staking step, crouching to twist beneath the branch-like arms behind him, needing a bit of space, a bit of room to breathe air that didn’t smell like rain and flower petals (petals like the ones in the man’s mouth), and very nearly slipped on the floor.

Flower petals of varying colours were laid out all over the floor, piles of them making dunes across his living room and into his room, full flowers laid out on the bedspread, and suddenly he really needs to sit down.

He also really should have called Torchwood (and by extension Jack).

This was after all the Faeries that they were looking into after all.

And his phone was in his room. Fantastic.

**_“Could you show Us how?”_ **

**_“Yes, show Us this Thing…”_ **

**_“Twist it so, just for Us, Dear Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Show Us how…”_ **

**_“Just so, twisted like how…”_ **

**_“How it’s twisted like so, this Thing…”_ **

“It’s a remembrance knot… you make it when you’ve lost someone… hold on.” He didn’t know why he was going to do it, but they would obviously be happy if he did, and what’s sacrificing a handkerchief for the rest of his night to go alright?

In his room, he immediately notices that, along side the pile of intact flowers on the bed, and petals all over the floor, a small sapling grew on top of his bedside table.

Ianto closed his eyes.

If he remembered correctly, which he knows he has, his phone is directly under that.

Fantastic.

Going to his dresser, he pulls out three ‘kerchiefs, gag ones Lisa had gotten him on Christmas, and decides to ignore the sprigs of lavender that tumble from the folds.

Back in the living room, the three Fae are crouched with Lisa’s Knot between them, stroking the fabric and poking fingers at the twist, though they all turn towards him when he pulls the first from his small stack.

There’s silence when he demonstratively holds it out, displaying the cartoonish holly berries on the green fabric, and folds it to have a long rectangle with pointed ends. Exaggerating the process of tying a knot in the fabric, he wonders why the silence seems startling, and decides that it’s because with these three around, there’s always a background noise, the burbling of a creek, the hush of rain, the rustling of leaves, and to have them focus so entirely is something more than strange.

He tosses the first towards them, and they all grab at it, before it’s hidden beneath the fingers of the one on the left.

Ianto ties the next, again exaggerating his moves with the blue Winnie The Pooh themed ‘Kerchief, and tosses it to them again.

The one with the Holly patterned knot tries to grab for it with a spare hand, but the other two smack it’s flailing arm away with a sound like splintering wood, and there’s such a scramble that Ianto ties the last red, pirate themed ‘kerchief and tosses it into the fray.

**_“Not fair…—”_ **

**_“Give it here…—”_ **

**_“It’s mine…—”_ **

**_“All Ours…—”_ **

 The bustle of flailing limbs was rising into the air, wings lifting them up, sounding like a swarm of locusts, a colony of angry bees, their just-out-of-sync voices jumbling together as they twirled, wind picking up around him (but not touching him. Later, when he heard the account of the teacher, he’s less confused, but then, later, he’s pulling his mother’s Remembrance Knot form it’s place and thanking her for her superstitious nature), until their edges are blurring together, disjointing, until hardly any part of them look solid.

These solid parts twirl together, green blurring around them, flashes of blue, a darker green, and red occasionally being seen, until that’s all that’s left.

The sound the three knots make when they hit the petal-strewn ground is anticlimactic, and Ianto doesn’t know if he should be disappointed or not when the three knots seem to twist in on themselves until they disappear with a faint popping noise. A faint mist erupted from the spot before dissipating.

In the silence of the flat, Ianto takes in the light coming through from his open window, the petals over the floor, and makes his way through the mess to his kitchen. He needed a Coffee, damn the time.

Berries are everywhere, along with piles of wheat, a tower of apples, and it looked like they’d planted potatoes and carrots in his sink, otherwise filling it with dirt.

There was also a slaughtered chicken on his table.

Ianto Sighed.

There was so much to clean…

In the quiet, Ianto hears the sound of his shower going, and heads towards his bathroom.

The door is a bit hard to open, but he supposed it would be, considering there were a couple of inches of sand on the floor.

He ignores that for now (the cleaning… oh the cleaning…), and walks the short distance to get to the taps, and turns them off.

The bath, half full with lukewarm water, had Lilly pads in it, and a number of bright green frogs.

The frogs, though probably confused to find themselves in a bathtub (perhaps even more than Ianto was to find them IN his bathtub), seemed happy enough in their predator-free pond, so Ianto closed the curtain and walked away.

He sighed again.

His room was still as it was, though there was now a pinecone on one of the branches of the sapling.

This wouldn’t be strange, except that it was 1. A Sapling, and 2. What looked to be a Cedar tree.

He had enough of being an adult about the situation, had dealt with Faeries invading his home to gawk over knotted fabric with as much maturity and good decision making as he could, and that’s how he justified walking over and poking the pinecone.

It crumbled, and a black thing fell to the ground with a thunk.

It was his phone.

It smelled strangely of cedar wood.

(The new phone he gets soon after that also smells like Cedar, as does every new phone he gets, and he’s not a woodsy person, and he doesn’t know how to explain it away.)

Ianto makes sure it’s still working, contemplates calling Jack, and then decides that no, he’s done tonight.

He finds his camera, takes a couple of pictures of each room (He’d been working in Archives for more than 5 years, some things just make sense), and then, instead of calling Torchwood like he probably should, he calls the number of a cleaning service he pulls from a discarded newspaper.

So, when at work the next day he finds that his rocks were found at Gwen’s house (and he very carefully doesn’t say anything when she complains about the mess, though it’s _really_ hard), he doesn’t mention it, only takes them home, glad to have them back (even if he hadn’t noticed they were missing quite yet), and keeps things to himself.

He prints out the pictures, and puts them in a file he has in his desk at his apartment, labeled “Interactions Outside of Torchwood.”

There are very few pictures in it, but then, the original file had been buried under rubble at Canary Warf.

He wonders if he should mention anything, but one look at Jack and the haunted look on his face, Ianto decides that there’s been enough about Faeries recently (and isn’t it irritating to have to correct the spelling on everyone’s reports? Fairy’s indeed…).

Then there’s more filing, more to do in the archives because a well-meaning Gwen decided to try to help, and then they’re going to camp out in the countryside to check out a bout of missing people, and it’s a horror movie come to life, and Ianto feels like that stupid character you yell at through the screen, the one you shake your head at when their head is rolling away from their shoulders because they went down the darkened hallway after splitting up with the rest of the team.

And he’s terrified. He’s seconds away from shitting his pants, because from the start it seemed like it would be aliens, but he sees part of the town, and part of him fears the worst (except not really, because he couldn’t imagine something like _this_ ), because there’s no sign of struggle.

For a while, before things got straightened out in his mind, Ianto had lived through tough times in a tough neighborhood, had done things he wasn’t proud of, done things he was absurdly proud of (one minor conviction for shoplifting, and he put it on his resume when applying for Torchwood, because no one would believe how much else he’d taken without being caught), and he knew what signs to look for.

So either the aliens managed to take the village folk without a fight, or… or.

Or.

Ianto breathes deeply, and winces when it puts a strain on his splinted ribs.

Tosh in the seat next to him is quiet, had been quiet the whole ride back to Cardiff, only nodding when Ianto had hesitantly asked if she wouldn’t mind coming home with him. Just for company.

She doesn’t complain, or start for the elevator when it opens, and waits the whole ten minutes with him until the elevator is empty, and no one else is waiting to go up.

They’re still quiet when Ianto unlocks his door, and when Ianto takes her coat to be hung up, her mouth makes something like a smile, and an answering sort-of smile aches on his own face.

Suddenly he feels a bit awkward, and he realizes that this is the first time he’d had someone over to his apartment (aside from Jack, but then Jack’s always the exception), and he suddenly sees all the things he hadn’t thought to buy.

There’s no rug on the wood flooring, there’s nothing on the walls, he doesn’t have any pillows on the couch, and he suddenly feels the need for a good blanket, the one you can feel the weave of, the kind he’d cuddled up into with his Mum on bad nights.

Still holding Tosh’s coat, he blurts “D’you want to go shopping?”

He doesn’t immediately feel the need to take it back, which is strange considering things like that would usually make him feel that, but he hadn’t realized quit how much he was missing in his apartment.

“Sure.”

He holds her coat out for her, a smile cracking his face briefly at the ridiculousness of helping her into her coat not five minutes after he helped her out of it. An answering, and equally brief smile flits across Tosh’s face.

“What are we looking for?”

“I have no pillows, no proper blankets, and no rugs… I suppose my sheets are rather boring as well.” Ianto hopes it doesn’t sound as much like he’s dragging her along for chores as it seems to him, but Tosh only nods. A thought occurs to him, then.

“Also, Ice cream. And Hot Chocolate. And I suppose you’ll need a tooth brush…”

And Tosh smiles. “S’mores Fudge Ice cream, definitely.”

“The bigger tub, the better”

“Do you have proper spoons for it?”

“Spoons?”

“The really large ones you can get big scoops with.”

“We’ll have to buy some then.”

And then things seem to get better, and it’s very late when they make it back to his apartment, and even later when Ianto brings out his laptop to show her pictures, both of them curled together under the three Proper Blankets, plush pillows surrounding them.

It’s a number of glasses of Irish Hot Chocolate later that Ianto brings out the innocuously named picture file “CHORES” and decides that perhaps everyone else has had enough Faeries for a while, but Faeries decorating his home is just unreal and fantastic enough to distract them from the other unreal, and rather more horrific and recent experience.

Ianto swallows his mouthful of half-melted ice cream, and revels in the slight case of brain-freeze that causes, because it means he can’t feel the phantom edge of a blade at his throat, ready to slice him ear-to-ear.

Both of them are laughing as they go through the pictures again, and Tosh says, “So that’s why you’ve been smelling like flowers? And why your place smells a bit like a florists?”

“I suppose… Can’t really tell anymore, tough d’you want to know a secret about how everything got cleaned up?”

“What?”

Ianto lowers his voice to a whisper.

“I called in cleaners.”

Over her giggles, he continues “The girl they sent started crying—no, no, I’m serious, actually crying!— when I showed her everything! They had to send in a couple of other’s. AND it cost a small fortune.”

“Oh no Ianto, really? I can only imagine…”

Ianto shook his head, and kept shaking it as he spoke (partly because, why not? And partly because he didn’t think he could stop), “That’s the secret. Torchwood’s billing the foot. Footing the bill I mean. Footing.”

That set her off into a fresh bout of giggles, and Ianto is glad he’d asked her over, glad she’d agreed, and glad they were both alive to enjoy it.

He was also bloody glad that there were so many stores within easy driving distance that were open so late.

Neither of them have to talk about it to know that this isn’t even remotely romantic when they crawl into Ianto’s bed, especially when they bust into fresh giggles when Tosh comments on her likelihood of leaving this bed smelling of roses, and Ianto skips running the next morning to help Tosh with her slight hangover (there’s those Welsh genes that save the day for him), and he makes a huge fruit salad for the both of them, both smiling when he pulls out the fruit, and he casually mentions how glad he’d been to know that the pile of berries wasn't 100% or else they all would’ve spoiled the next day.

Tosh comes into work one day with a new necklace, but Ianto doesn’t notice that so much as he notices that she’s gotten rather jumpy, and wonders if they need to have another comfort night.

It turns out that they do, and After Mary Ianto shows up at her door with a box of supplies, topped with a newly purchased hand-woven blanket, and without words he starts setting out the ice cream, the liquor, the small box of instant Hot Chocolate to tide them over while they wait for the real stuff to finish melting in the pot.

He doesn’t ask if she read his mind, he knows the answer, and he doesn’t ask what she heard, and somehow they were going to get through this.

He sits through her tears, comforts her hurts (and doesn’t he wish he had someone there for him like this After Lisa), and only leaves her for a moment, and then only to get the file folder of pictures he’d taken from the CCTV camera’s in the Hub and it’s accompanying USB key.

By the end of the night, he has learned more about Tosh’s lesbian sex-life than he thought he’d ever know, and by the time they fall asleep on Tosh’s bed, he’s gotten her to start laughing over the good times of her short relationship with Mary.

Everything isn’t all better, not even close, but they’re heading in the right direction.

Then, Suzie.

Ianto hadn’t had much of a relationship with the woman (But then, before After Lisa, Ianto hadn’t had much of a relationship with anyone), and it shows when, after she’s somehow been brought back to… if not life, then animation, she asks after Owen and Tosh in the interrogation room, but not him.

He doesn’t much care, but when it comes out that the Serial Torchwood Killer (because the Torchwood Serial Killer title was Suzie’s) was doing what he was doing due to programming and regular doses of Retcon, Ianto wants to hit something.

The missing paperwork for the amount of Retcon being used, it was all Suzie.

And now Gwen was going to die if they didn’t do something soon, until the Risen Mitten (2.0) was shot (literally), and Ianto makes Coffee, because it was likely only Gwen who was going home at anything resembling a decent hour, and everyone would need their coffee to get through all the paperwork.

Ianto can’t feel anything for Eugene, doesn’t think much about his situation other than to think that it must be interesting to walk around the whole day invisible to people around you.

Oh.

Wait.

Rolling his eyes at being sarcastic to himself, he Files information on the Gorgon Eye in G under Alien Body Parts.

And later, he only feels pity for the three who come out of their own timeline form the Rift, and when he’s told to get them new personal documentation, he makes them two.

One, that Jack asked for, and one with their original names on it, and isn’t surprised when they refuse to give up the only thing they had left to them form their original timeline.

He and Tosh share a look when Owen goes out of his way for the pilot woman, and they go back to Ianto’s place to watch old Bond Movies, and make plans to continue the next night, and maybe do a Matrix Marathon later.

They end up postponing that Marathon until later, because Tosh asks him to watch Ever After, and The Princess Bride, and Muppets Treasure Island when Owen gets hurt form the Weevil Boxing ring, because she says she needs comfort movies, and romance, and comedy after the past month, and Ianto agrees.

It seems too soon after that that Tosh and Jack are sent off on their own, to the past through some Rift-related problem, and Ianto thinks it’s a horrible kind of thing that it’s Tosh who’s sent back, and only she knew the equation to get them back.

When both she and Jack are back, Ianto feels like there’s barely enough time to breath before the Rift is being torn open, Roman soldiers slipping through (and oh did Ianto know Jack had fun dealing with THAT), the Black Death (he’d never seen Owen so shaken), and by the time it’s over, the whole situation is made worse by the fact that Ianto hadn’t had a single cup of coffee in more than 48 hours.

A day in the life of Torchwood.

And the day Ianto Jones fully understands that Jack Harkness cannot die. He saw it, and all the pieces that had been scattered through the time he’d been at Torchwood Three slotted into place.

Immortality.

That explained the strange inside jokes about the leader of Torchwood Three, from back at his time at One.

Of course this would also be the time that Jack goes running off with hardly a goodbye and certainly no explanation, and then they don’t see him again for a long while after that.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

One thing you must understand about the 456 is that they are junkies.  Highly intelligent Junkies, with lots of blissed out time in which to think up more ways to get their fix.

They also have a system.

Find a planet.

Infect it with a disease.

Make a deal, a small number of children in return for the cure. A cure that has a side effect that makes descendants, children of the right age, susceptible to temporary mind control via sound waves

Return much later, and ask for a much larger amount of children, in return for peace.

Rinse.

Repeat.

Repeat until all the inhabitants of the planet are too old to reproduce, and then…

Well, according to most others, they gas the planet and sell it off through a third-party.

There’s not a body left on the planet, so it’s open for anyone to take.

What most don’t know is that, being Highly intelligent Junkies with so much time to figure out how to get their fix, the 456 manage to get one last batch of children from the planet before they sell it off.

It’s a strange gas they use, really.

But they’ve been using it for so long, and they haven’t before been driven off from a planet, so they don’t test any further with it beyond the first dozen planets, and so don’t know what, exactly, would happen if the gas interacted with a body that was exposed to so many different energies in a comparatively short amount of time.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

One person may be able to figure it all out, but he doesn’t find out about this puzzle until later, and when he does, it seems kind of obvious. The certain kind of obvious that comes from missing only one bit of information.

But that clever, clever man doesn’t show up until much later, so don’t dwell on it.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

When Jack came back, it was with so much drama and heroics; Ianto could only shake his head at the typical Jack-ness of it.

Saving the team, and saving Ianto from having to shoot the Blowfish? And just in the Nick of time, too.

Ianto’s just as glad for it; he doesn’t much like shooting, though he was one of the top ranking shots in Torchwood One.

He’d ben tempted to take Jack’s offer to teach him how to use guns, having seen footage of his teaching methods, but figured it would get obvious enough that he knows what he’s doing, and besides, at the time there was Lisa to think of.

And so soon after Jack’s unexpected return, there comes John Hart, and Jack is running off again.

Why Jack was surprised when the team followed him, Ianto could only wonder.

But Ianto Jones had been watching Jack for a long time (and didn’t that sound creepy?), and just like how he noticed the shared looks between him and Gwen, he noticed the looks between him and John.

Though, this one spoke of a long history, rather than a shared secret

And if John Hart thought he was being covert about his crush on Jack by flirting with everyone, then the Time Agency must not teach it’s agents about body language and facial queues.

Ianto learned how to hide things like that when he was 10.

He almost smirks when he’s called Eye-Candy.

He hasn’t been called that in a good long while, and it was actually flattering when said by someone who seems to be as focused on sex as Jack is, if not more so.

(Perish the thought.)

Unless, of course, there’s a whole different meaning for the name in the 51st Century, which is possible depending on how you looked at Jack being upset at the name.

But then, Ianto was also partly certain that Business formal suits are some sort of sex costume in the 51st Century from how much Jack likes Ianto in them.

In fact, John’s labeling of him as Eye-Candy is starting to solidify the possibility, which means that Ianto will have to bring out the sexual Harassment forms again.

And then Jack asks him out on a date.

It’s so awkwardly asked, it’s obvious that Jack doesn’t do this often (asking for dates, certainly, since Ianto knew he had sex regularly), and it makes the situation so much more endearing, makes Ianto one step closer to trusting Jack not to abandon them again, than if he’d come after him with all his charming swagger.

And then there’s John again, and a gun, and if he was in his teens, he would have done it, if he was in anything but a suit, he would have done it, if he weren’t so sure that Jack could handle himself, he would have done it, but as he isn’t a teen, he was wearing a suit (not ruined this time out on the field, ta for that), and Jack seems to have been dealing with John Hart longer than Ianto has, so he doesn’t pull his hands up to numb and crush the delicate bones of his wrist.

He doesn’t turn the tables, doesn’t take the gun, doesn’t smack John Hart in his insufferably smug face, and instead imagines Jack and him waving John Hart goodbye as he’s sent to the center of the sun. Or at least very far away.

But he can’t keep in the small smirk curling his lips, or the eye roll, and doesn’t even try to keep from raising an eyebrow at John in the last few seconds before the elevator doors closed.

He wonders what John Hart thinks of him from that.

He wonders what the look on his face would be had he had actually disarmed him just then, and contents himself with these thoughts before having to run to try to find the rest of the team.

John was a pathological liar, but Ianto wasn’t going to risk it.

But then everyone’s fine, and Ianto keeps his smile to himself at the look on Hart’s face when Jack show up behind them, though it went a little sad by the end of the confrontation.

He didn’t like John Hart, but it had to hurt that his crush literally had forever, and didn’t want to spend any more of it with him.

He also didn’t think that John really deserved to be blown up, though he’d only known the man for a few hours.

The woman in the hologram seemed to believe he did, and to be fair, he did kill her, so he could respect that belief… but he didn’t believe in using an explosive device that would take out more than just John Hart, and maybe the building around him.

That is, in the truest sense of the word, overkill.

When John Hart is saved, the bomb no longer a threat, and the day—the same day—ahead of them, Ianto thinks about the filing he hadn’t gotten to due to this whole situation as Jack and John have a less than heartfelt goodbye, and is wondering if he should invite tosh over to start that Matrix Marathon when John brushes past him and cops a feel of his arse.

Ianto doesn’t give him the satisfaction of jumping, only raises an eyebrow at him and smirks before darting his eyes in Jack’s direction significantly.

John returns the look with an eyebrow waggle, and Ianto’s rolling his eyes just as John’s disappearing.

Tosh has some work she wants to get done at her house, so Ianto goes home and writes in his personal, not-at-Torchwood diary to write things up.

Later, he’ll update his Torchwood diary, minus groping and eyebrow waggles, and things will continue.

Beth, the woman, reminds him a bit of Lisa (a much meeker version), and the thought still makes him sad, but he’s mostly past feeling physical pain at the thought of her.

Beth, the sleeper agent alien, also reminds him of Lisa, and oh, there’s the reason why he’s only mostly past feeling physical pain at the thought of her.

One big difference between them makes itself obvious in the end, when Beth the Woman fakes holding Gwen hostage to get them to shoot her.

Ianto doesn’t speak ill of the dead, but he does wonder at what it said about Lisa and Beth, that Beth would remove the threat to those she loved, even if it meant her death, and Lisa would cling to life so desperately despite knowing what would happen if things went wrong.

Ianto wonders at himself, that he would help both.

Tosh needs another Movie night after Tommy, so they watch Mulan, Back to the Future 1 and 2, and finish the night drunk and watching old Captain America cartoons.

Tosh, in the morning, asks if, on a day without a hangover, she could join him on one of his morning runs, or maybe an after-work run if it isn’t too late.

“I seem to be needing too many movie nights lately, and if I don’t work off some of that ice cream, I’m going to need a movie night for an entirely different reason.”

The next movie night they have is also a vegetarian night, and they both ponder why they hadn’t thought this was needed at what Ianto liked to call the Countrycide Event, and Toshiko stays over, and they go on a run early in the morning, jogging to Tosh’s place and showering there.

Ianto had stayed over a couple of times, so he picked up a suit he’d accidentally left there earlier, thoughtfully dry-cleaned by Tosh, and they go into work together.

He thinks it’s a bit weird that Rhys knows about them, but thinks it’s good for Gwen to be able to keep her comparatively normal life.

Ianto doesn’t remember two days of work, but his personal diary mentions someone named Adam, and expresses confusion as to why he isn’t in the rest of his diary, and Ianto understands that for some reason they shouldn’t remember this Adam person, hence the Retcon.

He wonders if his diary nullifies that, but the only Adam he could think of was one of the casualties from Torchwood One, a tall black man who always complained that he hadn’t even liked coffee before Ianto started working there.

When Ianto meets Martha Jones, he wonders at how many other Jones’s he’ll meet. He’d only met Harriet Jones for a short amount of time, but she seemed like a nice person, despite the rumors of her having lost her edge from her brief stint as Prime Minister.

And Smiths, if he recalled correctly, there was a Mickey Smith and a Sarah Jane Smith, along with her son and a super computer named Mr. Smith or something of the sort.

When he sees the footage of the thing in her stomach wriggling around, he’s reminded of an old acquaintance who stabbed herself three times in the chest when she’s been so high she’d convinced herself she felt something moving in her chest.

Everything turns out fine afterwards, except right when they’re ready to finish thing up, things go to shit.

But then Owen had to go get his annoying, sarcastic self shot.

Another Movie night, with both crying a bit any time there’s a sarcastic, slightly bitter character, and Ianto thinks that the Matrix Marathon is a goal for a far future when alcohol makes them thoughtful and slow, and they trade plans of what they were going to leave each other should the other die, about messages they’d leave for the others, and Ianto says, quite smartly he thinks, that they should make a clause for if one of them dies before the other.

(Ianto later thinks on this when re-watching the video left for them much later, and hides his own, both on his record should he ever be declared dead, and also in the Archives, leaving a list of things he wanted everyone to have, including a note as to what WOULD have gone to certain people. He almost takes back the part that says that Jack gets both his personal and Torchwood diary’s, but figures his embarrassing thoughts in writing would be the least of his worries by then.)

Jack brings out another Risen Mitten, and brings Owen back.

Entirely back… sort of.

Ianto wonders what it means that Owen is still physically dead while still animated, and wonders if it’s because it was Jack who brought him back.

With Suzie, she was linked to Gwen’s life force, but what about Jack? There was obviously something different about his life force, since it seemed to be tied permanently to life, so perhaps the glove did it’s job as well as it could, considering Jack’s body refuses to let go of it’s life force?

It’s possible, and Ianto writes it down to look over later, because right now it didn’t seem concrete enough to mention.

But then there’s Death in the Hospital, and it looks like it’ll be something like the apocalypse if they don’t keep 12 people from dying in the hospital, and then they nearly lose Owen again.

Never has Ianto wished he could punch Owen more, but it didn’t seem like it would be fair since he wouldn’t be able to heal from it.

Ianto satisfies himself by remembering the time he’d shot Owen, and tries not to feel bad about it, considering that’s how Owen…

Well.

He doesn’t feel any pity for the man when he notices that he’s been sulking around the Hub, and hopes he isn’t making things worse for Tosh when he orders a pizza and leaves the Hub to the two, and convinces Jack to sleep at his place that night.

Of course they did other things, many pleasant things, and Ianto was only a bit worried that he’d mention to Tosh what was done on the couch some future movie night.

If he did, they would be even on the sharing of homosexual exploits front.

When Gwen is infected with a parasite that makes her look pregnant, the night before her wedding, Ianto finds it absurdly funny, but keeps it to himself.

It’s only a little less funny when the man at the bridal shop thinks the dress is for him (though it’s something he and Tosh giggle over later, and Ianto really doesn’t like the considering look Jack gives him), and when the wedding is actually happening, Ianto briefly wonders at the fact that he didn’t look too terribly different than he did any other day, and should he have asked Gwen if she wanted him to wear something different? Jeans and a t-shirt with a tie to make it formal? Leather trousers and a button-up (Jack would have enjoyed that)? Chaps?

Ianto could’ve stood to be the least dressed up person in a crowd.

(For once.)

And there was some sort of cosmic joke floating around in the air that the zombie-looking alien who wanted to rip the alien baby from Gwen’s stomach took on the form of her step-mother.

After the Night Travellers coming out of their film, Ianto remembers one of the few calm moments he’d had with his Tad, where his Tad talked about how when film first came out, people were so amazed with it, how people described it as so realistic it was as if the characters were about to walk straight out of the film, “And that’s before colour and things like picture quality were added and taken into account.”

Ianto also thinks about the fact that the first time they have more than two Torchwood agents at a movie night, it turns into work, and Tosh jokes that perhaps they should all sit down to a showing of Harry Potter.

Ianto thinks they could all do with a little magic in their lives, but thinks that with their luck they’d pull through Voldemort, or a couple of Death Eaters, or maybe a werewolf. And not the Twilight kind.

Gods, how had Rhi managed to convince him to read those books?

Ianto had just been crushed by rubble, had his shoulder reset, and was looking forward to a post-near-death Coffee when he sees John Hart again.

It’s a hologram, and he’s off somehow, but then, Ianto isn’t feeling terribly generous when it comes out that John was the one who put them trough the explosion in the first place, and it isn’t until later that he connects it with the way an old acquaintance had been off hen they’d been threatened with death to them and their younger sibling if they didn’t do what they were told, and by that point Ianto can sort of understand it.

Doesn’t like it.

Understands it.

He also understands that Jack is carrying a ton of emotional baggage when it comes to his younger brother, but if Ianto ever encounters him on his own, he’s shooting him. Grey says he begs for death, Ianto accepts that, and he’s always tried his best to be helpful.

But Jack spent a couple of centuries under ground, and while Ianto thinks Jack could probably talk to someone about it, he didn’t hold out hope that Jack actually would.

They’ve had sex quite a few times since Jack came back way back when, and probably more times than ‘quite a few times’ might cover, but it always seems a bit more frantic after Jack dies, and it always happens more times than Ianto thinks is possible, and if someone could go through mourning and shag at the same time, Ianto tries his hardest to do it.

Sore and satisfied, Ianto feels hollow, stretched, and doesn’t want to go back to his apartment. It was even more full of memories than it was when he had it full of furniture Lisa would like, and Ianto had learned young how to cry silently, but a sob comes through anyway when he thinks that that Matrix Marathon was never going to happen. No more movie nights. No more running partner. He doesn’t get to be the Bi/Gay best friend (and hadn’t that been a shock when he realized that that’s pretty much what he was), and he doesn’t get to hug, coddle, and cuddle Tosh.

Ever again.

Ianto wonders who’s going to bring _him_ a tub of ice cream after this.

He wonders if he’ll ever be able to look at the stuff after this.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The next day he makes a video, and prepares a file.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

In your DNA is a manual for everything in your body, and there is a note left there for any scars you get as parts of reparations that didn’t go perfectly, and there’s note of when you gain weight, when you grow taller or wider, when your muscles develop differently, for what changes happen for when you hit puberty, there’s a note for all of it, and your body is always working on those small problems. This means that as you get older, things don’t heal like they did, some old problems reawaken, some thing just don’t work the same way they used to, and eventually your biological clock checks out if it isn’t shut down prematurely.

With Jack Harkness, it’s like he has a reload point in his body that it reverts to any time he gets hurt or dies, like the only save point he can get to in a game, with a built-in cheat that keeps him from having to do things over again.

If asked, he would likely tell you it’s exactly like a cheat, though he wouldn’t be able to tell you if it was a cheat to the game, or a cheat against himself.

But every species has some sort of manual built into their system, alien or otherwise, and though they may work differently, reacting differently to some medicines, reacting differently to some foods, reacting differently to some toxins, this is a constant of the universe.

Even Time Lords have this Manual, though theirs reacts differently to death, replacing the manual as opposed to making a new note on top of it or clocking out immediately.

Should a Time Lord die, their body works to repair it, and if that isn’t working they switch out manuals. When they run out of Manuals, THAT is when they experience true death.

The 456 see this, and know that somewhere under all those notes are the old plans for a younger version of you.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

In Torchwood, timing is everything.

You must be there in the nick of time; you must find the solution before it’s too late; the show must go on, all that rot.

This is shown in the fact that Gwen finds out she’s pregnant just after figuring out that there was something going on with children, just before they have to evacuate the Hub because someone’s planted a bomb in Jack’s stomach, and as Ianto watches Jack looking up at him, some part of him not horrified for Jack to have to experience that is wondering if Myfanwy would be alright.

Another part of him wonders if it could be programmed into a dinosaur’s DNA to die via being eaten or else through some sort of explosion.

But that thought will have to wait, because a dinosaur flying around Cardiff is the least of his worries right now.

And then he’s back to being worried until he’s shaken from the explosion, everything muffled, his cheek bleeding, body aching, and he has to go, because there was a sniper, of _course_ there’s a sniper, and he had to get away—but Jack—he had to get away, Jack would survive (could he?), they’d find each other soon enough, he hoped Gwen was alright (should she be dealing with shite like this when carrying? Isn’t there some rule against bombings around pregnant women? Of course, if there was, Torchwood would disregard it, _of course_ , since Torchwood’s the bloody exception to most things), and he wondered if he was nursing a concussion—of course he was, of course, of course, of course…

Everything stays shit after that, including the less than blissful family reunion cum coming out story, and more shit keeps getting piled on.

He does get in contact with Gwen, and they do meet up, and they do find out about Jack, and they do eventually find him, and they do manage to get the cement block he’d trapped in, and that’s all of the sprinkles of good on a steaming pile of shit that is the past couple of days.

And then he has to dip back into a life of crime, but it’s a bit more fun than it used to be, because rather than stealing to move on through life, they’re stealing to help save the children of the world.

They are the strangest vigilantes that Ianto could think of.

There’s also Lois Habiba, who Ianto is holding out his opinion of, because she did help them, yes, and he could tell that Gwen wanted to have her join Torchwood after this whole mess is cleared up, but from what he could tell at the moment, she seemed like the middle ground between Ianto and Tosh.

He didn’t like the idea of starting to replace Tosh, because no one would be able to do that, and not only because Tosh was a genius in more than just name.

It would be a relief to have some of his work helped with by someone more competent in organization than Gwen and her misplaced ‘help’, but…

But.

But that was something to think on later, once there was certainty that there would be an after.

But she turns out to give in to Gwen’s request, and soon they are seeing through her eyes, and Ianto was reading her short-hand aloud (and wouldn’t that be convenient in work)

Finding out what the governments were planning was horrifying, and Ianto thought about what would have happened if the 456 had come back when he was a kid, and knew with certainty that he would be one part of that 10%.

He didn’t agree with how Jack seemed to have a hand in giving up 10 children to the 456, but could understand that he hadn’t seen any alternative at the time.

He wondered how many decisions like that Jack had had to make, and thought it was a neat lie Jack had told himself to say he was chosen because they needed people who wouldn’t care.

He doesn’t get a chance to meet Jack’s daughter or grandson (and isn’t that a weird thought), but in one of the few spare minutes he gets, he does look them up, and though he was no Tosh, he’d learned some things from her both directly and indirectly, so he can find the hidden files without bringing up any alarms and without leaving any fingerprints behind.

He wonders how difficult it must have been for her to grow up and eventually look older than Jack, her father.

Alice didn’t look old, no, but she definitely looked a bit older than Jack.

Steven looked like he inherited both his mothers and his grandfather’s eyes.

Plans are made, and Ianto feel confident as he makes his way to London with Jack, and soon (almost too soon), they’re in front of a gas-filled glass box where the 456 were, and Ianto almost lets Jack get away with being a bit overly dramatic, but can’t help but bringing a bit of realism into this.

Beside Jack it was very easy to be brave, be confident, to hope.

But.

Timing is everything in Torchwood, you must be there in the nick of time; you must find the solution before it’s too late; the show must go on, all that rot.

But then there’s the other side of the coin.

Tosh found happiness in her relationship with Mary, only to nearly go out of her mind and Mary turns out to be a murderous alien convict (who Ianto is almost entirely certain was going to eat her heart).

Owen plays a big part in saving the day when there was the Reset incident, and then he gets shot.

To top it off, he gets brought back to animation (not really life).

Ianto had been the one to review the footage on the day they died, and so he knew that just as they were getting along, just as there was more than a glimmer of hope that Owen would get his head out of his arse and see Tosh (actually see her, see _Toshiko Sato_ and the wonderful woman she is), and then Tosh has to listen to Owen moments before he dies, dying herself shortly after.

And then there’s now.

Happy, Confident, seeing the glimmer on the horizon, beside Jack, and the 456 release that gas.

In those last moments, he wishes that that myth of seeing your whole life flash before your eyes was true, because he would live it all again and more if given the choice. He also thinks it’s ridiculously romantic (and fatalistic) for Jack to say he’d give up the world (or 10% of it) if only they let Ianto live, and wonders if Jack is doomed to live a cliché hero with an amped sex drive for all of eternity.

He also thinks of the one, single time he’d held Jack as he died, been there for him when he woke up, and thought that here was Jack, returning the favor, except that there would be no waking up in Jack’s arms (though he lets himself have a moment to believe, a moment to think this is one fucked up dream born of living through so much trauma, and when he wakes up he’ll be in Jacks arms after a fantastic shag, and he’d go into work in the morning to say hi to Tosh and Owen and Gwen, maybe Meet Alice Carter and her son, Jack’s Grandson, Steven, and it’ll all be a ridiculous dream), and he wonders how many times Jack has done this.

How many times has Jack held someone in his arms as they died, how many of them had he slept with, and if Ianto would be just one more face, until he isn’t even that in Jack’s memory. The air burns in his lungs, heart pounding.

“I love you.”

For one horrible moment, Jack doesn’t say anything, before

“Don't.”

He almost wants to laugh, because isn’t that just Jack? Refusing death, even when it wasn’t his own. He has to close his eyes against the ridiculousness of it.

“Ianto, stay with me. Stay with me. Please! Stay with me, please, please...”

He cracks his eyes back open. It’s so hard.

“Hey.” He wonders at the romantic tragedy that is Jack Harkness’s life, and wonders how many times, how many people, have been forced away from Jack (because who would willingly leave?)(That Doctor of his)

“It was good, yea?”

“Yea.”

“Don't forget me.” It’s a ridiculous thing to ask someone who’ll live for thousands of more years, but he can’t help himself.

“Never could.” Lie.

“A thousand years time? You won't remember me.” It was a reassuring lie though.

Why couldn’t he just believe in it? His heart was stuttering hart in his chest, lungs working to get oxygen in a toxin-filled room, and he silently begged Jack to tell him one more, just one more lie. One more lie so he could go back to the delusion that he’d wake up and all this would be a bad dream, and there would be Tosh, Owen, Gwen, Alice, Steven, Jack, Tosh, Owen, Gwen, Alice, Steven, Jack, Jack, Jack…

Just one more thing to wonder at. Please.

“Yes I will. I promise. I will.”

And Ianto wondered no more.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Later, Jack sacrifices his grandson to force the 456 away.

Later, Lois Habiba is hired on as temporary Torchwood staff, until her treason can be dealt with.

Later, the computer system is back online, and Lois figures out how to change Ianto Jones’s status to deceased, and Both Jack Harkness and Gwen Cooper get to see his video, the one he made after seeing Tosh’s video, and it says as much.

“Well, seems as though I’m dead if you’re watching this, and I hope that Gwen Cooper is still alive, and I know that Jack Harkness is, and as much as I hope that I die doing something for the grater good, it’s also likely a Weevil got me.

(In an Undertone) Gods, I hope I didn’t get taken down by a Weevil.

I got this idea from Tosh’s video, and if somehow Tosh got brought back to life (Pause to wave awkwardly at the camera) well, Hi. And Goodbye. Again. I hope we managed to get in that Matrix Marathon. (Pause, Ianto looks away from the camera, lips pursed.) I hope we did.

I don’t think it’s possible for Owen to be brought back again, but if you are, you’re an arse, and if Tosh is brought back as well, go on a date already. If she isn’t, then go put a tub of S’mores Fudge ice cream at her grave, because body there or no, you need to do that. (Pause) I’m serious.

Gwen, and I hope you’re still alive, and I hope you’re happy with Rhys, and maybe you’ll give one of the dozens of children you two are likely to have after me. Only the middle name though, because you really don’t need to think of Death and I in regards to your kid.

To any new Torchwood members… welcome to the one job where you’ll experience Hell and come running back for more. I survived Canary Warf and came to Cardiff to join Torchwood Three. I also nearly started up a Cybermen base of operations when I brought with me my half-converted girlfriend… don’t do that. If you’re having a problem, don’t keep it in. In this job it’s more than a bit not good. It may not be the end of the Earth if you don’t follow this advice but… (Eyebrow raise) if it inadvertently causes it, won’t you feel silly?

(Meaningful stare)

(Clears throat) Jack… In the Archives you’ll find a file with my name on it in the cabinet labeled “S.H.T.F Death/Other Log”… there ARE other files in there, one on Lisa, one on Owen’s deceased Fiancée, one on Tosh’s mother and the people who held her hostage, one on the previous members of Torchwood Three, and one on the people from Suzie’s group and on Max, the man she Retcon’d and programed. So in case you didn’t catch on, “S.H.T.F” stands for “Shit Hit The Fan”.

But my file… well, in it, you’ll find (pulls out folder and pulls out one small stack of papers and holds one up) Information that whoever you get to replace me should know, including Myfanwy’s feeding schedule and exact instructions on how to use the coffee maker. And Jack I know that there’ll be a replacement. (wry smile) I know I don’t have a huge job, but someone needs to look after the Archives and keep the residents of Torchwood Three fed and watered.

Which brings me to the next part of this. (Holds up a small stack of papers). This right here is a guide to the present Archive system, so you’ll know how to find things and you’ll know where things go. Don’t rely on Jack for this. Don’t let him deal with anything in the Archives, or else it’ll be lost forever.

(Another sheet held up)

I know that my stuff will likely go into storage, but this is a list of things I’d like to go elsewhere. Mostly to the Members of Torchwood who I know, but there it is. As a side note, Tosh, if you’re alive, you get the couch, and all the blankets, pillows, and all of my movies, and have a Movie Night for me, won’t you? Jack, and this is important, you need to get this (Reaches off camera and pulls out a leather bound book) from my apartment. It’ll be in my bedside table, but you need to get this. I know that there’ll be so much I wish I could tell you, or things I wish I had told you, and I’ll have written it here. This is my personal Diary. There’s significantly more in it than my Torchwood one. You need to get this. Please. There are also files in my desk you should probably see, or at least make sure they get put where they need to go, but please Jack, please do this. I’m probably going to regret this, but please.

The rest of the things in the file are various pictures I’ve managed to cobble together of the team, and there are copies in this file and in the one at my apartment. The Archives room is built to last through a Nuclear blast, so even if you set off an explosive directly in the Hub, it’ll stand. (Shrugs) Don’t ask why there would be an explosion in the Hub, but in our line of work, it could happen.

In the bottom of the cabinet there’ll be a USB drive or two or three depending on how much later I survive after this will have all files and programs from the main computer on them. Before you think I’ve been silly for this, know its password protected.

(Eyebrow raises, and smile)

74RD15

Yes, Jack, it is that with the appropriate letter-to-number changes. The Doctor is someone you’ll likely always remember, so there’s no fear of the information being lost.

(Pause, and Ianto takes a deep breath)

Really, Jack… Please get my diary from my apartment. If… If for some reason you don’t… Know I love you. I do. If I haven’t already told you, know that. That, and that I don’t regret any of it. Before you go on to thinking to blame yourself for my death, know that that’s ridiculous. Don’t tell me you forgot that I worked at Torchwood One before I came to work for you. I went through Cybermen and Daleks, and my girlfriend being half-converted, and I came back for more. You shot the monster my girlfriend became; you let a little girl go happily with faeries to save the world; you sent a shell-shocked soldier back to his own time in 1918, back to his death, and I didn’t leave. You make the hard decisions that other can’t make, and I love you all the more for it. If you somehow led me to where I was going to die, don’t you dare try to think that you can in any way order me to follow you without my having chosen to follow you. If you were there with me when I died, then all I have to say about it is thank you. Thank you for making sure I don’t die alone.

(Ianto tilts his head, considering)

If you manage to find a different way to convince yourself it was your fault I died, Gwen, if you’re there, I give you leave to smack him. If not, then as a senior Torchwood member, someone, give him a good slap, will you?

Well, this goodbye is significantly longer than Tosh’s, but I couldn’t leave the file to being found too late—seriously, don’t mess up my Archives—and I wanted to be able to cover all the bases. So. Just think about what I said.

(smile)

Bye.”

Later, Jack goes to Ianto’s apartment.

Later, Gwen starts to pack up Ianto’s things, until she has to stop, and it is held off for a much later day.

Later, when enough rubble from the Hub is moved, they find that the Archives room is, in fact, intact, as well as Jack’s room.

Later, they find a half-starved Myfanwy in the room that once housed the half-converted Lisa Hallett.

Later, Gwen sees Jack off the planet, only just showing in her pregnancy, and wonders if he’ll come back.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The 456 terrorize a great many other planets before they hit one that knows how to fight back. Better, it knows how to destroy them, and so the 456 are no longer anyone’s problem, and people come to learn that the Face of Boe, while a peaceful being, also knows war. So a great many battles and wars go unsought when the Face of Boe made his opinion known that he does not condone such things, and life moves on with a number of fond memories, and the last bit of energy for revenge is snuffed.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Later, Torchwood Three is slowly being rebuilt, and bells ring at the New Year, but…

But.

But just a little while earlier, just a few weeks really, hardly any time at all, on an unseasonably warm day, there is an alleyway. At one point in time, a small boy found solace there in some found rocks, but now, there is a sound.

Just a small rustle. A breath.

And Ianto Jones wakes up.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you enjoyed that, and I’ll freely admit to crying for most of the last part here, and I continued writing it anyway. I even continued through my family’s mocking my crying. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, or to the main character girl at the beginning of Romancing the Stone?  
> Yeah. Crying at my own writing. That’s me.  
> Anyway, I did change up a couple of things in here, a couple of things went in a different order than in canon, and I used the idea from “Do not stand at my grave and weep” by blackkat with the faeries (but put my own twist on things, and am not copying her), and the Idea of Ianto and Tosh’s friendship nights from “Continue Firm and Constant” also by blackkat, and I hope I haven’t made them too similar.  
> Know that there is more coming, I wrote this for Nano, and I’ll post the next chapter when I have another 10k words written. Look forward to it.  
> ALSO: The thing about the knotted handkerchief is actually a superstition. Apparently faeries and malignant spirits get so distracted by the knot they forget about you entirely. If blackkat is reading this, THIS is my reason why Ianto Jones wasn't a Chosen and taken.


	2. Schism by Tool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So to make things clear, each chapter is going to be about 10k, and Chapter 1 was a cross between an intro and me setting the stage.  
> Hope you all enjoy, and thank you to Guest for letting me know that my Fae scene only shares elements to Blackkat’s story, not really too similar beyond that though :D  
> Warnings for swearing.  
> Enjoy!

Chapter 2— I know the Pieces Fit by Tool

 

It takes a moment to understand that he wasn’t in Thames house, wasn't in Torchwood's med bay either (no, that had been blown up), and he certainly wasn't anywhere he recognized--

Except...

He looked around him, shifting to hold himself up on one arm, and immediately winced.

His suit wouldn't--

But wait--

What the--

He stopped, and took a deep breath, counting to ten in his head, and then he looked down at himself.

He was still himself, he though, as he inspected his hands, jean-clad legs, sneakered feet, but unless he'd somehow shrunk (which wasn't, actually, out of the realm of possibility), he wasn't the Ianto he was last time he checked.

Looking around him, dark brick and wetly dark cement, mulching leaves in small piles where the wind had blown them once upon a time, and a memory niggled to the forefront of his mind, of Faeries and knotted 'Kerchiefs, of earlier memories of hiding from his Tad, of finding these four amazing, shiny, textured rocks, and he immediately looked around him in search of them.

They were nowhere in sight, and Ianto had a moment to be inexplicably disappointed, before his situation started to sink in.

Sitting cross-legged, uncaring of his filthy fingers, he felt along his face, the rounder cheeks, felt into his hair and noticed it was a bit longer than he now usually wore it (but he'd worn it like this once, hadn't he?), the bridge of his nose didn't have a hair's width little bump on it from the time he'd broken it. His face feels young and elastic in ways he hadn't noticed before.

And his hands, his hands have more calluses from monkey-bars on them than from pens, there wasn't the hard-smoothness on the inside joint of his thumb or on the side of his index fingers from flipping through pages, but there is, strangely, the scar on the fleshy part of his right palm that he got when pulling half-converted Lisa from the burning rooms of Torchwood One, and a ropey burn scar just behind his elbow from landing against a red-hot bit of rebar after the Hub had been blown up.

But mostly what he was noticing was that everything was very soft.

What, exactly, had happened?

He remembered dying--or something very close to his idea of dying.

He also remembered wishing desperately that it was all a dream--but was it that?

He sincerely hoped he wasn't so much a problem child that he could dream up a life filled with Cybermen, Daleks, Fish-headed vagrants, and the kind of Faeries his mother always warned him about. But then, what did it say about him that he could recognize how bad it would seem, discounting the fact that he was entirely certain that everything HAD happened, and that he hadn't convinced himself that there were other stories to his scars, hadn't convinced himself that when he grew up he was going to fall in love with an immortal, crazy (fantastic, amazing) man named Jack Harkness, and die in his arms when attempting to thwart the efforts of aliens who were trying to get millions of children to shoot up on.

Had he even known what shooting up was when he was this age? What was he, 9? 10?

He got up and tried in vain to brush off the dirt and mulch from his clothes, and comforted himself with the thought that at least he wasn't in one of his Armani suits.

Looking around, he decided that the world was a very different place when a 6' man wakes up half the size of himself, or at least feeling that way, something shone from a pile of mulch besides him, and for a moment he wondered if, rather than imagining everything, he'd somehow been sent back to his 8/9/10 year old self's body, and in that moment so many possibilities burst behind his eyelids.

He could convince Lisa not to go into work on Dalek/Cyberman/Doom's Day, he could keep Tosh from having to experience the fear of being the victim of cannibals--could keep her heart from being broken by Mary, or he could go to Jack now and share his knowledge, (Jack would know what to do), and there were dozens--hundreds--thousands of possibilities running through his head in that moment, before years of sci-fi and adventure novels shifted things to what he could change while keeping things as close to the original timeline as possible, so as to not make his foreknowledge redundant. He'd heard enough stories from Jack as well, about his years as a Time Agent, and the risks involved in dipping your fingers in the time-stream, and he had another few moments to wonder what he could do in the years between Ianto-the-child and Ianto-of-Torchwood-One and Ianto-of-Torchwood-Three.

In the next moment, there's disappointment.

The shiny thing half-hidden by leaves is a crumpled and discarded can.

Fantastic.

So it was likely that whatever happened in Thames House was to blame for Ianto's change, and so it was also likely that the 456 were still at large. Great.

And Ianto was a child, at a time when children are being round up, and when it comes out that, for all intents and purposes, Ianto is a lone, parentless child, they'd round him up as part of the 456's 10%, and that was not good.

Fantastic.

Movement at the opening of the alleyway made him turn, half-expecting Military goons to be trooping down after him, their lone-child-senses tingling, the anti-Lassie of the universe guiding them, but it was a somewhat confused looking kid with blonde hair and in a deep red uniform. He paused for a moment, and looked down the alleyway with a lost expression on his face, and there was something familiar to him, Ianto straining to remember when their eyes locked for one moment.

Even at this distance Ianto could recognize Jack's eyes.

"Steven!" Jogging down the alley, he couldn't believe how desperately he hoped Steven wouldn't run… but then again, Ianto wasn't a 6' tall man in a suit anymore. He thought he might be an inch or two taller than Steven, but from what he recalled he'd been cursed with elbows-and-knees gangliness until he'd started to fill out after high school. But right now? Not terribly frightening.

There was a weary relief on Steven's face when Ianto reached him, more so when Ianto pulled him a bit more out of sight form the road, further into the alleyway. He hadn't seen soldiers, and there were a number of people on the streets (maybe the 456 problem was finished? What happened?), but Ianto didn't want to risk it.

"Steven, where's your Mum? What are you doing here?" Where _is_ here, he wants to ask, but that's not the kind of question that inspires confidence.

"I dunno, just sort of woke up in the play park jus' over there." He gestures vaguely behind him.

"I was with Mum 'n Uncle Jack a little while ago, and now I'm here. How D'you know who I am?"

"I work wi--know your Uncle Jack. He talked about you, showed pictures. Which park did you wake up in then?" Without meaning to, his Trust Me I'm A Kid expression was on his face at the lies, and Steven's expression relaxed a bit.

He rattled off the streets the park were by, and Ianto was surprised to know that he was pretty close to his old neighborhood, pretty close to where Rhi lived with Johnny and her two kids, and contemplated going to her for a moment.

No. How was he going to explain it? Easy: He wasn't.

"What's your home address? I might be able to get you back home."

At Steven's skeptical look, Ianto shrugged, Trust Me expression still on his face. "I'm good with directions."

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto had led them through most of the backstreets he'd memorized years and years ago, and had even convinced Steven to go up fire-escapes on sides of buildings to go over easily-accessible rooftops

His fingers burned a bit from the short climb he'd had to do to get to the first level of one, and it was one more reminder he didn't have the calluses for that kind of climbing anymore, but for his pain he'd gained a safe short-cut as well as Steven's awe and respect ("How d'you climb like that? On Brick! Did Uncle Jack teach you that? Why hasn't he taught me that? It's so cool!").

The work-out he was getting while bringing Steven home was bringing forward the previously ignorable fact that Ianto was starving, stomach gurgling even as his straining arms pulled him up and over metal rungs, and child or not, Ianto-the-adult had connected being hungry to also wanting Coffee, and gods did he need a coffee right now.

Though didn't coffee stunt children's growth?

Ianto peered around an alley's edge, and thought screw it; he could stand not being 6' even if it meant he'd have to have his suits retailored.

Again.

If he got back to his normal age and height, that is.

They were on Steven's street, and Steven was in the lead now, pointing to his friends’ houses and telling stories about what he and his friends had done in various places. Ianto smiled wryly as he listened. He and Steven couldn't have more different childhoods.

Ianto was the one who rang the doorbell when Steven found the door locked, and it took longer than it should have for someone to answer the door. Ianto looked around as they waited, checking for bugs and hidden cameras, and then checking from his vantage point if there was anyone hidden in and around the surrounding houses.

The door opened, and Ianto turned to see an Alice Carter who'd seemed to age about ten years past the most recent photo of her. He had a moment of horror—what if he'd been made a child AND sent ten years into the future? —before he saw the years just about melt from her face as first shock, then disbelief, and then disbelieving joy crossed her face as she took Steven desperately into her arms.

She was also crying.

Sobbing, really, and how long had Steven been missing, exactly?

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto nursed at a hot chocolate, watching wide eyed as Alice Carter moved around her kitchen, seemingly unable to spend more than a few minutes not looking at Steven, not able to keep herself from stroking his hair, touching his shoulder as she moved about.

"So who's this Steven?"

"This is Ianto. He says that he knows Uncle Jack, that he was shown pictures. Hey, won't your Mum be worrying about you?"

Alice had stiffened somewhat at the mention of 'Uncle Jack', and Ianto wondered if he'd be able to get a sandwich for the road when he had a chance to explain some things, because he wasn't entirely certain that she wouldn't make him leave once she knew he was part of Torchwood. From the files he'd read, Jack and Alice had a rather strained relationship, but that could mean so many things. Keeping eye contact with Alice, Ianto replied;

"Um, I'm visiting with Jack at Torchwood," Ianto darted his eyes meaningfully towards Steven, unsure how much to say in front of the kid, and raised an eyebrow hoping to get his point across. "He knows where to find me." He shook his head just a bit before focusing on his hot chocolate, wishing it was coffee, and hoping he could get some sort of food soon.

"Steven, you're filthy, go have a bath and I'll look after Ianto until you get back, okay?" Steven grumbled a bit, but finished off his hot chocolate and headed for the stairs, sharing a look with Ianto that he supposed was meant to mean something like "Moms, huh?" and half-smiled in return, unsure as to the proper channels for this kind of child-to-child interaction. Apparently it was the right thing to do (perhaps it said something like "tell me about it," but it had been a long time since Ianto had to interact with a kid like this he had no clue), because Steven grinned and bounded up the stairs.

"So. You know Jack. Don't tell me they're enlisting children now."

"Yes… and I'm not a kid, or at least I wasn't before today. We never formally met, but I worked with Jack at Torchwood Three." Well, he had a vague memory of an awkward brief meeting where Alice knows him only as the man bumming her dad, but he's hoping that she'll have forgotten about that.

(She has a bad enough relationship with Jack without her associating him with pedophilia)

Ianto set his empty mug on the table, and stood to offer his hand. "Jones, Ianto Jones at your service. I joined Torchwood One in London in 2005 when I was 22, Survived Canary Warf, and joined Torchwood Three in 2007. I am **not** a child." Ianto didn't want to be treated like a child, hadn't liked it when he _was_ one, didn't like it now.

Alice was frowning, likely trying to see him as an adult.

" _You’re_ Ianto Jones? Really? Oh gods, that video… And what do you want? Why are you here? How did you bring Steven back?"

Ianto frowned. "Well mostly I'm hoping for some food right now, if you don't mind, I'm feeling a bit starved, and I came here because I recognized Steven from pictures, and knew the way back to your place." At her questioning look, he shrugged. "Eidetic memory… But what do you mean _how_?" It seemed like the wrong word to use, considering. And what did she mean by _video_?

Alice looked towards the stairs a moment, lips pursed, and in the silence Ianto could hear the shower running somewhere upstairs.

"Steven… Steven died. A-about five months ago, with the, uh, with the alien things, the 678 or whatever they were called." She broke off to grab a tissue, dabbing at the corners of her eyes, and twisted her lips into something resembling a smile at Ianto's wide-eyed look.

"Yeah. Good old Dad used him to drive them off; whatever it was he did killed him. His own grandson. My little boy." Her voice cracked, and tears escaped her dabbing to streak down her cheeks, lips trembling.

Ianto’s only experience to crying women was to offer alcohol, a proper blanket, and movies, but he didn’t think that that was the proper response here.

What _was_ , he was at a loss. He thought perhaps the last time he dealt with a crying woman was one time with Lisa, but Lisa wasn’t a woman who liked to be seen crying, and the only other time he could recall was a couple of acquaintances from his past, a few female friends from University, and a few times with Rhi.

Rhi just needed a hand on the shoulder, and a hug after that.

Alice jumped at the small hand on her arm, and that automatic smile mothers got on their faces when confronted by a child, the one that said “no, no, I’m fine, go on and play” and Ianto smiled awkwardly back, eyes darting to the side. She choked out a little laugh, and thankfully that wobbling lip thing (how could it be so alarming?) stopped.

“Look at me, being comforted by a dead man in a child’s body…”

A dead man.

A dead man?

Dead.

Him?

What?

_What?_

“What?”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto blinked when the video finished, warring states of emotions battling it out under his shock.

And this went viral?

Steven had come down from his shower near the end of the video, and at some point Alice had brought out a tray of sandwiches.

Ianto ate mechanically, eating two halves to every single that Steven did, and tried to get his mind around the fact that he was, officially and legally speaking, dead.

And unofficially a child.

What?

He was confused, trying to figure out what was happening, and he was angry, because he had every fucking right to be angry (He _died_??? More than five years of his life in Torchwood, more than _ten years_ in the roughest neighborhood alongside it’s occupants, and he was _gassed_? By Child-hopping _Junkies_?), and he was really, really embarrassed.

His last words—the words the world apparently knew him for—were him declaring love for Jack, and then being insecure about if Jack would remember him.

And where was Jack anyway?

And what had happened?

Ianto had started thinking that it had something to do with the gas that made him into a child, made the stronger argument when considering that about 4 months ago he was apparently made dead (or something imitating death? All he could think about was the Draught of the Living death, from Harry Potter, but what if there was something similar on another planet?) by the gas, but how did that explain Steven?

And if it was the same force that brought them back to life (again: Was he actually dead? He needed more information…), then why wasn’t Steven a baby? Or an embryo, since Ianto was about 15 years younger?

If it was the gas (how could Steven be affected by it), then Ianto could start making something resembling sense, though it would include a lot of hypothesizing, and a lot of assuming that there was some kind of technology and biological advancement to make things so.

And even then it didn’t explain how he managed to get to the alleyway. That specific alleyway. He recognized it… was that on purpose?

But, if it was the gas, then Ianto could only assume that it was a plan by the 456, and it sort of made sense.

 _Why_ … he pondered… _would a group of aliens looking to get high off of children, destroy so many adults?_

One needed adults in order to make more children, Ianto was certain that for as many differences as he could imagine between different alien species and Humans, there must be some similarity between that. Unless a species asexually reproduced, or perhaps developed off of another organism—but no, then it would be the same case. Why remove so many producers of the drug?

(He didn’t want to think of children as a drug—especially as he was in the body of one—but to understand this, he has to look at things differently)

So, what if as a way of terrorizing the Humans (and there was an interest in terrorism there—look at the dramatics with the children. It was certainly not necessary, not if they were advanced enough to do it in the first place, but it would be something to do if one wanted an entire species to be afraid and confused), they found a way to rewind someone’s genetics? With some sort of programmed or necessary time delay (like, say, four months), wherein the recipient of the chemical (drug?) appeared dead, only to wake up again later.

But why younger?

And it still didn’t explain Steven.

Ianto also had to wonder if this was happening to anyone else.

He knew that the building hadn’t been evacuated when they’d gone to confront the 456, and they’d gassed the whole building.

If 30-50 odd people got turned into children, then that would support the gas theory. He still didn’t understand the age thing (why would they do that if they wanted the 10% of children well before the 4 months were up?), but…

Ooh, this was making his head ache.

A glass of orange juice was set in front of him, and Ianto noticed that the TV was on in another room. Steven was nowhere to be seen, so Ianto assumed that’s where he went.

Alice sat down across from him, a question in her eyes, and slid over another plate of sandwiches.

Ianto was still hungry.

Had he ever been this hungry? He didn’t remember having an appetite like this when he was younger… but would he?

“So…” he started, but didn’t know where to continue from there. He didn’t have any answers for either her or himself, so he took one of the halves on the plate (and halving his sandwiches for him. He’d already told her he wasn’t a child right? He assumed it was some maternal instinct, or else having to raise a child had made the sliced sandwich an automatic thing) and looked to the side.

Well what now?

“Do you have any clue what’s going on then?”

Ianto shook his head and swallowed. “I have some ideas… did Steven get exposed to any kind of gas before he… you know…”

Alice shook her head.

“No, they had us under surveillance for a bit, and Steven played football with some of the agents… And then Dad… Could he have done something?” Her eyes spoke of hope, and Ianto had to wonder.

Was it for an easier explanation, or maybe proof that Jack wouldn’t do that to his own grandson—her son.

He shrugged uneasily.

If Jack had done something… Ianto drew a blank.

Back to the sandwich.

Why’s and how’s were floating about in his head, and he was trying to think of anything they currently had archived that could do something like this—the gauntlet. The Risen Mitten…

But Jack wasn’t around. Hadn’t been. Ianto woke alone (and he really hadn’t felt like he’d been dead, just like he’d had a nap), and Steven had been wandering on his own.

“So what now?” Ianto looked up, the last bit of crust making it’s way in his mouth and his hand automatically going for another on the plate. Glancing out the back door, he grimaced. It was getting dark out.

“If you wouldn’t mind letting me stay the night, that would be appreciated. We should probably try getting in contact with Jack and Torchwood—”

“I’ve been trying. Jack isn’t answering, and I don’t know the number to whatever Torchwood you came from.”

Ianto frowned.

That wasn’t terribly helpful… And he had no way of knowing how much of the Hub had been repaired, how many communications were back up. If the same number was being used…

He could probably get to the servers through Alice’s laptop, but while he knew that the 456 were dealt with (he still needed to get the full story on that, but Alice didn’t know the particulars. He didn’t blame her; she’d just seen her son die), he didn’t know if the government was still after Torchwood. He didn’t know if Gwen was still alive, of Rhys, and while he knew Jack was somewhere out there, he was out of contact.

Since he’d been gone (dead), a couple of videos had gone viral, including the one they’d used to blackmail the governments in charge of dealing wit the 456 (he’d also seem videos of the riots that sprung up after that, and the beginnings of Denise Riley’s political takeover were duly squashed as the world heard her trying to only save her own family, talking about some children being expendable), and a voice-over review of what had happened before (oh Martha, back from your Honeymoon and hitting the scene running?)…

(And his death)

So what if Torchwood was still on the radar?

Ianto wasn’t going to worry until he was certain things had actually gone all to shit again, but telling himself that didn’t make the little twist in is stomach go away.

But hacking back into the Torchwood servers might raise alarms.

Where else could he get the information?

Unless… Right. To London, and then to Cardiff.

“Okay… Then if I’m allowed to stay here for the night, I need to get to London.”

“Not Cardiff?”

“No… not yet at least. If I can get cab fare, or a lift, it would be appreciated. I don’t want to trouble you, but—”

“But nothing.” Ianto was startled by the firmness in which she said that, and she continued, “you brought my little boy home, a place to sleep and a lift to London is the least I can do.”

Ianto swallowed, and reached for another piece of sandwich and met an empty plate. He flushed lightly.

“And the sandwiches didn’t hurt, either. Now why don’t you get yourself to bed then, hmm? We, or you, have a big day tomorrow.”

Ianto frowned, and began to open his mouth.

“No, I know that you aren’t a child, but you’re in a child’s body, and you’ve had enough action to make that body need rest. Do I really need to point out who would know better right now? Now off to bed with you. Go was up, it’s the second door on the right up the stairs, and I’ll bring you a pair of Steven’s pajamas in a moment.”

A yawn caught him unawares, and he only raised an eyebrow at her before he stood with a smile and headed upstairs.

He knew when he was beat; he just wanted to be sure she was aware that he wasn’t _actually_ a child. He called out to Steven as he headed up the stairs (it seemed like the thing to do), telling him what was happening, and he got an answering grunt.

Still thinking, he wondered if he’d be getting his answers any time soon.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto stared at the passing scenery, the clothes he’d woken up in the previous day washed, and one of Steven’s old knapsacks next to him on the back seat, 100 pounds in one pocket and a change of clothes and a lunch inside, including two sealed water bottles.

Ianto was only slightly tempted to pull out the set of sandwiches, but thankfully the odd hunger of yesterday was absent.

Steven was excited to go into London again (Ianto wondered if he remembered his death. Personally, he remembered that day in Thames house a bit like he imagined one might remember almost drowning: hard to breathe, struggles, and then, ultimately, you were alive and breathing just as normally as you usually do, everything else a bad memory), and Alice was bringing him in with his papers to get him back in school. She didn’t think this would be too difficult, and while Ianto had some reservations, he’d had some time to cruise recent events in the paper that morning.

With so many children taken from their homes, while most were, by now, safely back in their homes, with their parents, a great many were still being held in various housing units until their parents could be found. Still more were being found in hiding places, or wandering the streets.  

Ianto wondered if there would be any mention of kids saying they were adult in children’s bodies, but put that thought to the side. If the time delay brought everyone back as a child then they would be confused and scared for a little while yet, and it would be a while longer before anyone started to think that there was any merit in what they were saying.

(If this was actually the case, that is. Ianto still couldn’t be sure it was a result of the gas. He wondered what, exactly, had happened with Steven.)

Even if it wasn’t necessary to hide form soldiers, Ianto was glad that he’d bought Steven and him back to Alice unnoticed.

With the way things were, people would have thought they were lost children and would have tried to help (while being utterly unhelpful).

But, thinking about Alice going to go bring Steven officially and legally back to life, he had one other mortifying thought.

The video.

The files.

He still didn’t know how much had been recovered from the Hub (all the paper had to say about it was that things were still being cleared up), but if they’d gotten the mainframe set up again, someone likely found the time to plug in that he was dead.

His ears burned, and he desperately hoped that his message hadn’t played.

He knew it wasn’t fair of him, considering that with the message he would also be directing them to the USB drives he’d hidden with backups of all programs and files they had on hand, but really?

He pressed his cheek against the cool glass of the window and hoped that whatever was keeping Jack was also keeping him from seeing that message.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Alice had told him to wait before he left to go ‘wherever it is that you need to go’ but Ianto had started to see that particular look she was getting when looking at him.

He wasn’t a child, but he looked like one. He may be Torchwood, but he was also the (not) little boy who led her son back home safely.

He may be associated with Jack, but her thought dead little boy was back in her arms, wasn’t he?

And Ianto did look like a little boy.

And, Jack’s daughter or not, Ianto couldn’t (didn’t want to) bring a civilian and her son to where he needed to go.

So he pulled out the notebook she’d thoughtfully packed in his borrowed backpack, and a pen, and scrawled her a note— _Sorry, had to go, don’t worry, keep trying to get Jack, will get back to you when I have answers, sorry again, bye, Ianto_ —and took to the back streets.

So long away from them, but he’d relearned them form CCTV camera’s after so long away, and it was almost as simple as slipping on a favorite pair of shoes.

Almost, because it was like those shoes had a rock in them, and maybe was wearing a hole in the heel. He wasn’t as fit as he was as a teenager, he didn’t have the calluses to grip at handrails and crumbling brick, his arms were shaking, and soon enough he had to crack open that first water bottle, and from his vantage point on the roof, he still had a ways to get to the site of Canary Warf.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Of course, there was that thing about Torchwood an timing again, and Ianto misses two riots (one just starting up, one in full swing), only to make a wrong turn (it was the right way, but wrong turn, wrong moment) and run directly into the middle of a knife-fight.

Nearly directly into a knife, too, which was again one of those timing things since he’d only just noticed to stop in time.

The tall men (everyone was tall, now) turned at his abrupt entrance, and one barks at him to “fuck off you little shit” before thy turned back on each other.

Ianto turned to do just that and nearly ran into a third and fourth man, one of which caught at his borrowed jacket, fingers bruising, and held him so that he had to twist on his toes to keep from having something sprained.

The one who told him to ‘fuck off’ swore, and tried to run, and the man not holding him pulled a switch knife on him and got him when he ran past past.

Ianto just caught the rancid scent of a gut-wound when he was pulled deeper into the alley, and his heart was pumping, and his arm hurt, and goddammit _seriously_?

Ianto Jones, killed during negotiations with 456, brought back to life 4 months later, killed again shortly after in a knife fight gone much worse than you could have ever hoped.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Then, for one glorious moment, when Goon 1 (not Grabby Goon 2, or Knifey Goon 3) was pulling out a phone (“yea, we got a kid ere too, ‘e saw, you wan’ us ta—”), Goon 2 shifted his grip, and Ianto could twist and shove, using his momentum to drive his fist into Goon1’s gut, reach and twist the hand still holding a knife, take it, and run past.

There was a dumpster pushed up against the wall, and he leapt off of another box in his path to get up it, despite the shouts behind him, and leap off of it and the brick wall to the fire escape above and beside it, knife handle in his teeth.

There was a metallic thump as the three below him slam into the dumpster, but Ianto is already clambering up the side of the escape, the aches in his fingers negligible in the face of one of the worse fears of his teen years, the burn in his lungs hardly an irritation, and then he was pushing against the wall in order to reach the ledge, blistered fingers screaming at the cold cement there, but that was something he could deal with later.

On the roof, he only allows himself a moment to rest, to take the knife out of his mouth (he hadn’t meant to take it, he didn’t want it, but some things just happen, are just automatic, and at least it wasn’t the one that gutted that man), close it up into something safer to carry, and caught his breath a bit.

All in all, tat was maybe two minutes, and he could still hear the men below, so he ran, only just making the jump between buildings before her was letting himself down a couple of levels of balconies, jumping to reach a lower building, and running some more.

He made it about an hour’s walk away from where he needed to be, and made a detour to the park, looking around for large men and heading for on of the few wooded areas.

His heart was pumping what felt like adrenalin and starch through his blood stream, but he didn’t stop walking until he couldn’t hear the babble of voices, cars only just audible, at which point he collapsed.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

His hands ached, felt five times too big, but it wasn’t that, his aching, cramped body, or his startling case of cottonmouth, that woke him up.

Blearily looking around, wincing when a patch of sunlight hit his face directly, he tried to identify the noise and it’s maker.

There was a glow just out of the corner of his eye, and it moved when he turned his head to see it, and there was that noise again, directly behind his head now.

Carefully turning his head again (gods his neck was stiff), Ianto frowned at the little glowing figure there, uncomprehending.

The little glowing face, indistinct except for a razor slash of a mouth, tilted, and a little arm came up to give him a little wave, and that noise came again.

Tinkling laughter straight out of a children’s tale, but behind it he could hear the rustling of leaves, the gurgling of a brook, the creaking of trees, a rush of wind through a roaring fire.

All these things, and what scared Ianto most was that they were appearing to him like _this_.

But he was much too sore to do anything but stare.

**_“Hello Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Sad Little Boy…”_** came from somewhere above him.

 ** _“Afraid Little Boy…”_** came from by his feet.

 ** _“Fast Little Boy…”_** another giggled.

**_“You are from Before…”_ **

**_“How, Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Sad Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Old Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Yet still so Young, Our Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Yes, We See You, You could have been Chosen…”_ **

**_“You could still be Chosen…”_ **

**_“But How is That, Our Fast Little Boy?”_ **

Ianto shook his head minutely, and his lack of understanding must have shown.

 ** _“And still Slow Little boy…”_** One of the Faeries mocked.

 ** _“He doesn’t Understand…”_** One takes up.

**_“So Fast and_ Slow _…”_**

**_“So_ Old _and Young…”_**

**_“So Good with_ Truths _…”_**

**_“Such a_ Good _Little Liar…”_**

**_“Sees so much…”_ **

**_“Stays so well Hidden…”_ **

**_“Doesn’t See what has Happened…”_ **

**_“Doesn’t Understand…”_ **

**_“Can’t answer any questions…”_ **

**_“But Knows so Much…!”_ **

Ianto tried to keep up, and there were dozens of the little glowing creatures around him, all small and quaint and glowing like something out of a dream, and they were resting on his body, tugging insistently at bits of his clothing, flopping over the folds, and he could see a gaggle of them sitting on his backpack, sticking flowers into its openings.

**_“But still doesn’t See yet…!”_ **

**_“No, not yet, doesn’t Know, doesn’t Know…!”_ **

**_“But no! How, Little Boy, could You be Chosen if You Aren’t…?”_ **

**_“Not Chosen…”_ **

**_“But Could Be…”_ **

**_“But We Cannot See You…”_ **

**_“Except now, You’re Here…!”_ **

**_“But how…?”_ **

**_“Yes, How?”_ **

**_“How?”_ **

**_“How? How, Yan-toh?”_** They asked, cajoling, drawing out his name.

 ** _“How, How, Yan-Tao?”_** (The mucking up of his name shouldn’t have irritated him as much as it did, but Ianto didn’t much like people butchering his name)

**_“Our Welsh Little Boy…_ **

**_“Gift of Gods…”_ **

**_“Our Yan-Toh…”_ **

**_“Our Gift…?”_ **

**_“Gift to Us…?”_ **

**_“Our Little Boy Gift…”_ **

**_“Gifted Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Older Boy…”_ **

**_“Remembered Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Missed Little Boy…”_ **

**_“How?”_ **

“I don’t know.” Ianto managed to croak out, and he managed to pull himself upright, arms creaking and shaking form that small action, whole body feeling like one big bruise.

**_“Don’t know, don’t know…”_ **

**_“But so close, can tell…”_ **

**_“And Distracted! So much Danger…”_ **

**_“Such Danger for Our Yan-toh…”_ **

**_“For Our Possible Chosen…”_ **

**_“For Our Impossible Un-Chosen…”_ **

**_“How?”_ **

**_“How?”_ **

**_“How?”_ **

**_“We shall See…”_ **

**_“Yes, Little Boy…”_ **

**_“But what is it you’d like…?”_ **

**_“Yes, Tell Us Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Sweet Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Hurt Little Boy…”_ **

**_“So full of Ouches…”_ **

**_“Hurts…”_ **

**_“Little Scratches…”_ **

**_“Full of them, Our Little Un-Chosen…”_ **

**_“And so Full of Energies…”_ **

The Fae climbing over his body like their own playground changed, glowing green like sunlight through leaves, and Ianto couldn’t keep his eyes open, lids turning to molten lead, and despite his struggles they closed, hot tears escaping into his hair line.

**_“Sleep, Tired Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Dream, Sad Little Boy…”_ **

**_“Rest, Hurt Little Boy…”_ **

As a last ditch effort, Ianto raised his eyebrows as high as they could go, a response from his childhood to tiredness, and in the small crack, he could see flat green faces staring down at him, piranha teeth bared in a grinning mouth.

**_“And We will Watch Over You…”_ **

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

A little while before this, in the East End of London, a Man turns over on the grass of what had once been his back yard years and years ago, and frowns.

At the same time, elsewhere in London, a Woman is doing the same a little ways away from a pond she’d played by, years and years ago, and if the frown comes less easily to her face than to the Man’s, it’s up to interpretation as to what that meant to their characters.

The Man gets up stiffly, and, startled, checks his own pulse.

The Woman gets up, embarrassed, and wipes down her dress, smiling awkwardly at the few people walking about the park so early in the morning, and wonders how she got here, when last she remembered…

The Man curses, and gets up, looking around, and swears again, before storming to unlatch the gate to get to the main street, heart thumping in his chest. Last he remembers…

Both shudder.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Even while sleeping, Ianto’s mind works.

It works at a problem, reviews information, and determines the correct course of action, whether it is pursuing a train of thought, following up on a certain lead, or getting more or new information.

If one option is to get more information, it then reviews places where he might find what he what e needs, whether that’s in the library, on a certain site, in the Archives, or, rarely, if no other place is available or likely to have what he needs, then his thoughts will turn to the likelihood of a certain place still standing.

The likelihood is always high, as it was on the fifth floor underground, and even so long after the incident, the possibility of construction making it’s way that far down is so minimal that even if the area hadn’t been reinforced to survive a nuclear war (or Daleks and Cybermen invading), that doubt is negligible.

But though this place is always an option for gaining more information on any subject, there are usually several things holding Ianto back from going and getting those answers. 

Lisa needed taking care of, as did the rest of Torchwood. He couldn’t check to see if the conversion process could be reversed, or any other possible way to try.

So he did what he could.

Jack and the rest of Torchwood needed tending, and London was a fair bit away.

So he did what he could.

Aliens may be breaking his friends hearts, there may be a strange alien drug going around, and Owen was dead, and then still dead but animate, and there was still Jack to take care of (except for the time when he didn’t, _because he wasn’t there to be taken care of_ ), and there were still a dozen other things to do on top of continuing to organize the Archives.

So he did what he could.

And sometimes, that’s all he could do.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Sometimes, that’s enough.

Sometimes, that’s more than enough.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

It takes both the Man and Woman a little over 5 hours to get to Cardiff, the three-hour travel time made longer by the fact that both the Man and Woman woke up without money, without id, and by waking up when the majority of the population were getting themselves sorted, but were still otherwise confused and by extension making a nuisance of themselves trying to figure things out.

But the trip would have been infinitely longer had there not already have been people who managed to sort themselves and others out, and had there not been hordes of people willing to help people who are as confused as they once were. As out of luck as they were.

And if that meant that they had someone to tell all their theories About What Happened to, well, that’d just be them doing their civic duty.

Honest.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto wakes up to the smell of Cedar and Lavender, and something sweet.

Prepared for pain, he rolled towards where he remembers dropping his knapsack, shivering slightly as cold air hit his wet back, and did feel pain.

But that’s an understandable pain, as he rolled his hip and waist onto an apple.

There wasn’t, surprisingly enough, pain anywhere else.

Ianto knew from experience that you needed to cool down after a workout; that you needed to stretch your muscles, prevent kinks, knots, shake out your limbs and keep moving.

But he’d pushed his body earlier, desperation to get away giving him energy and a willingness to push on that his younger body wouldn’t have otherwise been able to keep for as long as he did.

And then he’d collapsed.

He’d gotten away, sure, and though Ianto wasn’t sure that the three Goons would have followed him past the first or second rooftop, the area wasn’t safe.

Unless he managed to be really unlucky, he was out of whatever amount of territory the three would look around.

(Well out of it.)

Scooting back, Ianto sat up properly, and saw a couple of apples on the ground around him, and his fingers clenched in grass that was much thicker than he knew it would grow in the cooling weather.

In a small burst of warm air, the back of his shirt dried, and Ianto shivered again, the hair at his nape standing on end.

Ianto looked around him, trying to spot either and both small glowing sprites and twiggy, branching green humanoid figures, carefully following swaying branches with his eyes, listening.

Nothing.

Hesitantly, Ianto picked up one apple and brushed it off on his pant leg before biting into it.

Sweetness burst on his tongue as he crunched on the pieces he bit off, and wondered where the Faeries went.

He didn’t particularly want to see them again, but it seemed fairly obvious that they’d healed him somehow (and how had they done that? As far as he knew, the Fae had control over the four elements, and healing flesh and bone had never been something they were known for in his Mum’s stories. Or Jack’s), but he wanted to check.

If he was right, then that meant he very likely owed them something, and that was not something he wanted to leave standing.

Loan Sharks _wish_ they could make a debt last as long as a Faery could.

Ianto finished one apple and moved onto another, just as juicy as the last, and thanked whatever power was out there (other than the faeries) that he wasn’t as ravenous as he was when he first woke up in the alleyway.

Checking his pack once the second apple was done, he ate a couple of handfuls of the berries in there, and winced at the stains in the spare pair of jeans that were in there from them, and pulled out one of the water bottles from where they’d slid to the bottom.

The Faeries had filled the empty one up again.

Ianto shook his head. He wasn't going to be thankful for something they could do with a thought.

The more thankful you were for something the Fae did, the more they could ask from you.

He didn’t have any solid proof that this was the way things actually were, but Ianto had put a lot more faith into what his Mum had taught him way back when.

Until proven otherwise, he was taking it for fact.

He only wished she’d mentioned something about these ‘Chosen One’s’, because while it was obvious that something his Mum did when he was a kid kept them from seeing either him or his sister (or being able to concentrate on either of them, he wasn’t sure), he didn’t know anything about them beyond what Jack had said.

The Chosen Ones were human children whom Faeries would protect and avenge if harm came to them. Eventually, the Faeries would claim these children and take them to their "Lost Lands," something that his mother had told him was something like all the wilderness that was once in the world condensed onto one plane of existence. She said she imagined it was a land made up of eternal forests, where everything went bump in the night and nothing was restricted to shadows. Where you didn’t have to go looking for beauty, and everything wonderful was just beyond the trees. Jasmine Pierce had left happily with the faeries, and Gwen hadn’t been the only one to see her face in the supposedly faked Faerie pictures.

He didn’t know what to think about him being an “Impossible Un-Chosen” let alone a “Possible Chosen”.

Ianto shrugged out of his jacket and inspected his arms and hands.

Scrapes and bruises he knew he’d gotten were gone along with the aches and pains, and the blisters that seemed to encase his fingers from scraping against metal and rough brick and cement were gone, and he could feel the rough patches of new calluses where he’d scraped his skin raw. He rubbed his fingers together, scraping the backs of his nails against the healed skin, and flexed his legs, shoulders, feeling for any aches, pulled muscle, anything.

Nothing.

Ianto sighed and frowned, staring at his hands.

He wished he could believe that things were looking up, but he didn’t know what was happening with Jack, he didn’t know what happened to Gwen or Rys, he didn’t know what was happening—what had happened—to him…

There were just so many unanswered questions.

A lump of worry sat heavily in his stomach

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The Woman made it to Cardiff approximately 30 minutes before the Man.

It would have only been 20 if the Man hadn’t had an epic hissy fit at the third person to ask why he was in a lab coat. He didn’t know why he woke up in it, not when he didn’t remember wearing it when… “But for fuck’s sake, can’t a man walk around in a lab coat without being asked about it all the fucking time?”

Both the Woman and the Man headed straight for the Roald Dahl Plass, the Woman reaching the Bay area first.

She stands a little ways off, watching as men in reflective vests and uniforms block the area off, removing rubble and debris. Staring in disbelief and confusion, she somehow makes it to a nearby bench before her legs give out, eyes unable to look away from the wreckage.

The Man, having worked himself into a righteous snit at the nerve of some people who couldn’t leave well enough alone, gets there shortly after, and stares.

Then he swears under his breath, running one hand through his hair, and swears again, louder.

A mother walking by with her son’s hand clutched tightly in her own scowls at him as she passes, and the Man makes a face at her.

The Man looks around, searching for someone familiar—there should be someone, right? There should be someone around, someone to explain the fucking situation—and sees the Woman.

“Thank God.” He breathes, and hoped he’d get some answers to whatever mess this was.

“Tosh, what the fuck happened?”

It took her a moment to look away from the rubble, and when she did she stared with wide eyes up at the man. Her eyes got wider.

She pursed her lips, and her face crumpled. A sob escaped her as she threw her arms around him, and more followed.

“Oh my god, Owen!”

Patting Tosh’s back, Owen wondered at the crying woman in his arms, and looked out at the wreckage that was once the Hub.

What the fuck was going on?

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Owen knocked hard on Gwen’s apartment door, ignoring the man that went past and gave him and Tosh a strange look. Tosh was holding tight to the sleeve of his lab coat, eyes red.

“Gwen! What the hell is going on?”

This was all he needed, really, after waking up (again) after dying (again), and finding out that his fucking workplace had been blown up (admittedly, a first), and Tosh had apparently woken up just like he had (he didn’t want to think about what that meant), months after they both remembered the date being, and where was Jack?

Nowhere to be found. No Tea Boy either, but Owen could figure that the two would be off somewhere getting each other off or something… Honestly, Jack had no restraint, and it wasn’t like Ianto was going to say no to the pervert.

So they were at Gwen’s, where she was likely cuddling with her cozy little husband.

Her apartment was closer than Tea Boy’s anyway, but now she wasn’t answering the fucking door! He wanted answers!

“Gwen Fucking Cooper, you better get out here and answer some questions!” He pounded on the door a few more times, and Tosh tugged on his arm.

“Don’t cause a scene, you’ll get us thrown out.” Tosh was still looking at him wide-eyed, something that was solidifying his theory that yeah, he’d died (again, watched himself dissolve until his eyes went), and then was brought back! AGAIN!

“What did I tell Harkness, I said don’t try bringing me back after I’m dead again, and what does he do? He brings me back! Of Bloody course he would, and what’s with dumping me in my old neighborhood? No respect for the dead, that one, but then, he can’t be considerate and stay dead himself, no…” he muttered to himself, resolutely not thinking about the fact that Tosh was being quiet about what happened after the nuclear waste had flooded the room he was in, ignoring how her eyes darted away from him at the mention of bringing him back, because he could only deal with one problem right now, alright?

Fuck.

“Gwen! Gwen—!”

“Oy, oy, oy! What are you doing that for, Gwen’s at—!”

Tosh and Owen turned to see Rhys, and both men stopped their shouting.

“…Work.” Rhys finished weakly. “Weren—weren’t you two…?”

“Fuck.”

Owen looked at Tosh, and tried, for a moment, to imagine her dead.

He couldn’t.

Not looking at him, Tosh offered up a wobbling smile.  
“Do you think you could call Gwen? We don’t have any electronics… or money…”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

“Hello? Rhys? I’m a bit busy—”

“Owen and Tosh are in the living room.”

“…What?”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto left, the few apples left stuffed into his backpack, feeling grimy but physically well, and paused just before he went into the park.

One last chance for the Faeries to show up again.

They didn’t. Ianto carried on, finding the nearest street corner’s to orient himself before setting off at a slow jog to the nearest short cut. There would be less of them the closer he got to Canary Warf, after all.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

“Why didn’t you say you got killed? When? How?”

“It didn’t come up, I—”

“It didn’t come up? What else were we talking about? How did it happen? That bloody Harkness, how soon after me did you go? What the fuck Tosh?”

“… Grey shot me in the stomach, when you were asking how to fix the problem with the nuclear plant…”

“… But.” Owen frowned. “But Tosh, you were telling me how, you were on the com, you were talking me through it, what…?”

Tosh gave one of her small, slightly self depreciating smiles.

“I know, I wasn’t much help, was I?” She didn’t seem to know where to look, and huffed out a small laugh. “Look where it got you… I don’t know how much longer it was after that that I… Well.”

“Tosh… You couldn’t have figured that that energy spike would happen.”

Another smile.

“I know.”

Her eyes finally landed on Gwen and Rhys’ computer, and she busied herself there, clearing her throat.

“Well, let’s see what’s been happening then—oh, hold on, this shouldn’t be popping up here…”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 “…What? Rhys, they’re—”

“They’re in the living room. Yes it’s them, Owen’s being an arse and Tosh managed to fix the thing with the blinking light and the thing that kept popping up—”

“I’ll be home in 20.”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, and look forward to the next 10k (and yes I know this was only 9, but last chapter was 12, and next will likely be 9 as well to help me keep track of when I should be posting. By chapter 3 I should have 30k in this story, or thereabouts.)  
> ~Doodled93~


	3. Blind by Florence and the Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of it! Not a teaser this time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm glad I have another chapter to put up, because Ao3 doesn't have a delete chapter option (you should get on that!), and so I don't know if any of you subscribers will know about this update...   
> If not, I'll be writing a note at the beginning of the next (I'll be posting in a couple of days, working out the kinks and editing) that people should go back one chapter because otherwise they'll likely be surprised that things are COMPLETELY DIFFERENT.   
> Thanks for the patience!  
> Enjoy!

Chapter 3—Blinding by Florence and the Machine

 

On his way, Ianto managed to stop by a place that sold handkerchiefs, and bought half a dozen of them with some of the cash in his knapsack. 

They weren’t particularly well made, and certainly not what he would buy to go with his suits, but they’d make knots just as well. 

If he ran into the Fae again (and he had a bad feeling he would), perhaps he’d pay his debt by showing them a few different ways of tying a knot.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto sat on a bench facing the Thames, secure in the Dead Zone, and smiled at a dog walker as she walked past him with a small pack on leash. His Trust Me face was firmly in place. He’d already directed a concerned woman away when she asked him if he was lost 

(“No ma’am, I’m waiting for my Mom to come back. She went to go get drinks to go with the snacks,” He gestured vaguely behind him, half-eaten apple in hand. “Don’t worry, she’ll be here in a moment.”) 

And were other adults always so easy to convince? _Yes_ , his memory supplied the number of times he’d been able to explain away various alien occurrences without having to use a full dose of Retcon. _Always_ , his memory continued on with half-recalled instances when he was actually younger, when adults could be convinced that bruises were gained innocently, that he hadn’t meant to knock that thing over to distract them from being stolen from, that he’d honestly hurt himself, and yeah, he’s alright and walking away with them none the wiser that their wallets were in his pockets, that… 

(So many memories. )

But, a good Trust Me face works wonders, it seems, but a good suit made it infallible. 

Gods did he miss his suits. 

Jeans were all well and good, but he missed the feeling of a good fabric on his skin, a waistcoat pressing his torso, the rich fabrics and colours luxuriating. 

Getting through the early morning rush of businessmen and woman had been easy enough (you could get so many places if you looked like you were on a job, heading somewhere, busy), and now it was a waiting game. 

The tide would be low enough at about 10, when the morning rush dried up, and hopefully he would get where he was going. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

When Gwen unlocked her door, and saw Tosh and Owen, she threw herself at them, eyes watering. 

That was the only moment that she forgot what she was thinking when she was driving back home, and a moment later, she was pulling her gun out to aim at them, placing herself between them and the door, inching between them and Rhys. 

“Bloody _hell_ woman!” 

“Gwen!” Rhys was severely confused and alarmed.

“Gwen, what are you doing?” 

“Until I know that you are who you _bloody well look like you are_ I’m not taking chances!” 

“You bring me back _again_ and you’re wondering if I’m an imposter? Fuckin’ hell!” Owen threw his hands in the air and started pacing. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

There was an entire level of Torchwood One that had very limited amount of people able to get there. Limited amount of people _allowed_ there. 

Ianto was one of the few from the Archives that were allowed there, his results on the cognitive and memory tests getting him there much earlier than would be usual for a junior Archivist, but then, nothing about Torchwood is ever really ‘usual’. 

(And Ianto is unusual even by Torchwood standards.)

He’d had the Dead Zone explained to him early on, when he’d been shown where the off-site entrance to the Lower Fifth Level:

It was an area where Torchwood One had complete control over the CCTV cameras, the footage once going through the Torchwood servers before making their way to the police. The servers, which incidentally ran through the Lower Fifth Level first, had certain programs in place to redirect the cameras when one needed to get to the doorway leading to the Lower Fifth. 

Ianto was hoping that the program that would redirect the cameras was still running… hoped that when low tide came around his continued presence at the bench would be enough. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

They stared at Gwen for a long, uncomprehending moment, the panic of the situation dissipating slightly when Tosh and Owen took in the image Gwen presented. 

“You’re pregnant?”

Tosh felt a bit dim for being the one to say it aloud, but it was a startling  thing to see. She looked about ready to explode… should she really be bursting into her own apartment, gun at the ready in her state? 

(Obviously they’d missed quite a bit more than they’d thought. The Hub was blown up and Gwen looked fit to do so herself.)

She thought it might be a bit more startling if she hadn’t seen something like it before, and Owen apparently had the same thought. 

“You didn’t get bitten by an alien again, did you? Because that would be fucking typical.”

It was a wonderfully typical reaction for Gwen to lower the gun to smack Owen on the back of his head, a gloriously familiar thing in a world of strange. 

It would be the most comforting thing she’d see for a long time. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

A little after 10 the Cameras posted around the area turned away as one. 

Ianto smiled, and moved towards the metal railing that stood between the Thames and the public and, when there was a lull in the few people still out at this time, leapt over the edge. 

He had a moment of panic just before his feet hit the invisible catwalk—literally invisible, rather than unnoticeable like the invisible lift (two _entirely_ different pieces of alien tech)—with a clang. 

There was a moment when his stomach rolled, looking at his feet braced on nothing, before he settled himself. 

“Ianto Jones, Arch-IJ67234 Alpha Beta Applesauce-32.”

There was a moment where Ianto worried that his name, code, and clearance passcode wouldn’t work, but then a metal door seemed to melt forward through the slime-and-lichen covered cement, and slid to the side to reveal darkness. 

Lights started flickering to life far into the darkness, lines of light flickering on closer and closer until sterile white walls made blinding greeted him. 

Ianto snorted as he walked forward.

Torchwood One and Three were as different as day and night; the sterility of One compared to the comfortable dark of Three, and it was almost surprising how unsurprised Ianto was that he didn’t miss this. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

There was a drawn out bout of awkward silence after Gwen had made sure that Tosh and Owen were who they said they were. 

(As sure as she could be, considering this was probably the best example of conflicted interests, the kind that would have had her taken off of a job on the force)

Gwen fought down the flush that wanted to rise in her cheeks, since being sure meant quite a lot of shouting and ridiculously personal questions, some of which had come perilously close to revealing her bout of infidelity to Rhys… She had had to pull Owen aside once she was more certain that Owen wasn’t a disguised alien, to confirm, and had nearly had a heart attack when Rhys had walked in to see if she was alright. 

But now she was more than fairly certain that maybe they were who they said they were, or at least were as much of who they said they were to be able to be trusted. 

Maybe. She was fairly certain. 

“So...”

“Why haven’t you called Jack yet?” Tosh had a familiar look on her face, one that Gwen knew she had on her own face occasionally, same as everyone else on Torchwood. The look said that if Jack was here, he’d explain things and Everything Would Be Okay. 

Gwen shared a look with Rhys, her lips pursing when Rhys frowned.

“Well…”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The place didn’t smell nearly as much like a hospital as he remembered, the air stale and recycled but not nearly as sterile. He’s reassured by the low hum of fans as air is filtered from miles upwards, the generators still working strong.  

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Tosh stared at Gwen, not believing it. Jack was gone?

“He left? Well that’s bloody great! Off with his Doctor again? I can’t bloody well believe this…” Owen threw his hands in the air and stood to pace, and Tosh shook her head. 

“Wh-why? What happened? Why did he…” she trailed off when she saw Gwen’s face turn darker. 

“It… might be a bit easier to understand if you saw the news first…” 

Rhys pulled the clips up on their now much quicker computer, someone having posted a collaboration of all the footage of that short and horrifying time, and they sat in to watch. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

If she didn’t know it was impossible, she might think that even her tear ducts were in shock, because no tears fell even after video-Jack collapses and the next part of the video shows, desperately calm looking officials with darting eyes and small flinches telling the public that _oops_ , perhaps they made a hasty decision in taking the children for ‘vaccinations’. 

That no, they weren’t planning on giving up anyone’s children, and everyone should disregard the incriminating videos that have managed to make their way to the internet, blah, blah, blah, and trust in your government. 

She felt increasingly detached as Gwen explained that Jack stayed long enough to start up the recovery of Torchwood before leaving, but gets that right now the focus is on recovery. 

She’s gotten UNIT to help with rounding up the Weevils that escaped, and there’s a few teams on standby here to make sure nothing goes horribly wrong while Torchwood is recovering, and any and all alien tech found amongst the rubble is being stored. 

She agrees that they’re in luck that the Archives were built to be able to handle the kind of blast it did, or else there would be significantly more work to do. 

Tears sting the backs of her eyes at the thought of the Archives, but stay locked behind the iron bars of shock, and she agreed rather numbly that they should try to relax. 

Its not likely that they’ll be able to figure things out that day, at least, and Tosh knows that as soon as she can shake off the numbness, she’d want to see what she’d missed when she’d been… Well. 

Later, it gets a bit awkward when it becomes obvious that despite Gwen’s earnest generosity in offering them a place to stay, there would definitely not be enough room. 

They were looking for a new place to stay, and that sparked the possibility of Owen and Tosh finding an apartment to rent, but the lack of papers and money puts a dampener on that idea. 

They put a hold on brainstorming where Tosh and Owen would stay when a call comes in from UNIT about a feral colony of Weevils, but the problem remains even after Tosh and Owen assist the UNIT team assigned to the problem. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

It was, at once, a long and short walk to get to the main area, with no stops to get through more doors, no areas to stop to re-confirm his identity, and nothing to distinguish one hallway from the next. 

Ianto had gotten lost a number of times in the beginning, and counting his memory for things and sense of direction had him wondering at if there wasn’t something sentient about the walls… 

Well.

He still had no proof as to the walls and corridors, but there, the plain-yet-blinding white of the walls giving way to a large dome of a room, at it’s center was something that was more than a little sentient. 

The entire room was filled with monitoring equipment and screens; several were set up around the center of the room surrounding the mass of wires and metal that jutted to the ceiling. 

As he walked nearer, dormant screens lit up in welcome, and there at what he’d considered his own monitor, several blue wires the exact shade of his eyes dropped down. 

For the moment, he ignored it, and ran a hand through the dust on the tabletop. It pulsed for a moment before forming into keys, each square with rounded edges and familiar like a keyboard with three times too many buttons. 

In that moment, he forced down the shudders in his insides at the thoughts reawakened at seeing organic matter and technology so seamlessly working together. He still remembered his horror at seeing the similarities between the Cybermen and what seemed like an old friend.

This was, rather uncreatively he’d thought, called the Mainframe. 

It was mostly organic, partly mechanical, a great deal digital, and entirely adaptive. 

Certainly adaptive to other technologies, but also adaptive to situations. 

The information on the Mainframe Ianto had found (the only paper file that had more information in it than on the digital database) said that it was found on a shredded space ship not long after humans were starting to get the hang of computers and their practical uses, and when they’d worked on scanning it, it’s hard outside shell of tech had adapted, read probably much more from the device than they’d gotten on it, and had promptly learned how to communicate. 

The old Torchwood members had stared, transfixed, as in the next ten minutes the Mainframe had pulled up letter by letter onto a screen to spell out

G R E E T I N G S 

It had taken much longer for them to understand enough about it to understand that it was very much so a rather large and complicated computer. 

It had taken them just a bit longer than that to recognize that they wouldn’t be able to take it apart, the shell of the thing more sturdy and complicated in design for them to even begin to contemplate. 

It was nearly a decade after that that they realized that no, the oddest thing about it wasn’t the fact that it could tell them just about anything they needed to know about just about anything that they encountered (as soon as they figured out the right way of asking, anyway) and yet took ten minutes to get out a nine-letter word. 

No it was the fact that it, a computer, was communicating with them at all outside of a search parameter. 

Now, the idea of an AI wasn’t so far fetched, and it had been brought up as a possibility about, oh, fifty years ago, but no AI, no program, really, could replicate emotions or form opinions outside of it’s programming. It could calculate figures and probabilities, but it wouldn’t hold a personal opinion of any of the people using the program

Ianto was certain that, had Torchwood One stayed around long enough, in another hundred years there would have been more debate about Mainframe being an AI, but as it was he was happy with knowing Mainframe as an organic creature. 

One with nothing even remotely resembling morals or a conventional sense of what is right and wrong, but an organic creature. 

It had thoughts in its head/self/entity, and seemingly the one purpose in its life was getting more of them. 

It lived off of the electrical charges from information, and was always looking for more. 

It had opinions, to a degree, and a way of processing information and situations to form logical outcomes and even some ideas that wouldn’t be possible without an understanding of emotions and the flaws in logic that resulted from emotional responses.

There was no noted point where the old Torchwood members figured out how to ‘log in’ with the Mainframe, but it was one of the first things that Torchwood One’s Lower Fifth had taught him about, considering that he would be cross referencing that way. 

Ianto picked up the three chords that had dropped down, feeling the strange rush just below his fingertips that had always put him in mind of holding a live wire, and carefully pulled the largest strand towards him to rest the tapered just against his collarbone at the base of his throat. 

A shiver tickled at his ribs when a feeling crossed somewhere between a lover’s kiss, a friendly flick, and a tiny tongue licking him touched skin before subsiding and feeling like nothing at all. 

He picked the other two and placed them lightly against his temples before pulling back slightly, and the wires connecting to Mainframe stiffened to keep the ends floating just off of his skin.

“Confirm connection?” he asked, voice sounding horribly light and childish when repeating protocol, and a brief feeling of warmth heated his skin, a shiver running up his spine. 

That was Mainframe’s feeling for him, a sensation like someone turned a heater on over his body, and a separate sensation of someone running their finger down the back of his neck. It wasn’t altogether pleasant, but it certainly wasn’t unpleasant. 

He’d heard others describe Mainframe’s feelings for them differently, some whom Ianto thought that Mainframe didn’t much like (because she certainly had favorites) avoided ‘hooking up’ because of the chills they got, pinches and shocks, clammy feelings as Mainframe connected with them and registered who they were. 

He thought Mainframe rather liked him, from the warmth, and had a couple of ideas of what her secondary thought of him was. 

When it was ‘discovered’ that Mainframe had feelings at all, let alone thoughts and feelings on those who ‘hooked up’ some of the stuffier scientists had tried to look into what the sensations Mainframe greeted each person with meant. 

(That was, he thought, one of those inescapable things about scientists: their urge to figure out the _why’s_ , what something _meant_ and _what made it so_ as they tripped somewhat over the line between scientists and philosopher)

There was a rather dead end conclusion that had basically spiraled down to “Mainframe likes some people and likes other people less and chooses your own remembered sensations to make you feel how Mainframe sees you when being greeted. Just because.”

Ianto thought Mainframe took the idea of greeting someone ‘warmly’ or ‘coolly’ a bit literally, and thought rather favorably on his first greening being the feeling of coming out of the cold; of feeling like he was coming inside after playing in snow; laying in sun-warmed sand after swimming in cold water, dozens of variants of the thought “and now I’m warm again” even if it was followed by a shiver up the spine. 

He’d thought enough on it on his own, and the feeling was too general for him to get a good idea of it. 

It was playful, watchful, teasing, irritating, familiar, creepy, and uncomfortable… 

Mainframe could be greeting him any number of ways:

“Hey, I like you, but I know you’re hiding something…”

“Hey, you’re fun but I’m still going to poke you annoyingly…”

“Hey, you’re a great guy, but I’m going to bug you like a sibling would…”

“Hey, you’re my friend, but I’m watching you…”

So many things, and Ianto thought it might just be a bit of everything

(because he was always hiding something, whether it was his less than sparkling past, his dislike for a coworker, his half-converted girlfriend, his crush on Jack while trying to cure his girlfriend, his desire to be a ‘couple’ or ‘boyfriends’ or _something_ with Jack, and because he did find the sensation a bit annoying, and familiar, and a bit sibling-ey in that love smack kind of way, and it did feel a bit like he was being watched, but maybe by someone he knows…)

but it could just as easily be none of those things. 

He’d once tried asking Mainframe, but in response he’d gotten a couple of question marks and that tingly light sensation behind his eyes that felt quite a bit like curiosity, which Ianto translated to ‘just because’. 

But for all that Mainframe was brilliant in a way that he could only vaguely understand, there was so much that got lost in translation.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

“Well why don’t you stay at Ianto’s old place?”

“You haven’t unpacked it?”

“Well… Ianto had it paid out for the rest of the year, and with everything else happening…”

“Of _course_ he had, what? Seven months of rent paid out in advance?”

Tosh nodded, smiling a bit. That did seem like the kind of thing Ianto would do. 

She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to handle it so soon after finding out he was dead, but she could be practical. 

Being practical in the face of Ianto’s death would be something he’d appreciate, after all. 

Now she just had to see if she could remember that.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Posing a question to Mainframe was easy enough so long as you knew what to focus on and how. 

Now, he focused on the 456, on Torchwood Cardiff, on Jack Harkness, putting his mind firmly in the non-recent past, and the screen filled with information, some scanned papers, and what was obviously supposed to be a secure government document. 

He read through the lot, bits he thought were important being highlighted as he read, and he wondered at the fact that there was very little he didn’t already know. 

Jack had filled in quite a few blanks, but Ianto had been able to figure out much of it himself. 

Mainframe did identify what the chemical was that had been introduced to the population that allowed for the seeming mind control. And, because Mainframe knew Ianto and knew he would want to know the original name, showed him what it looked like written in the Natives script. 

It was one he didn’t know, and in the native script it was significantly shorter than the technical earthly text, a series of small doodles making it up.

(This fact led him to believe that perhaps the species had a better sense of dimension to their limb-to-hand coordination, to have detailed pictures the local written dialect, and he filed that thought away to look into later)

The first character looked something like the infinity symbol but bent, the second a cube that Ianto thought might be a sort of dice from the suggestion of a picture, and the third and fourth a spiral and an inverted version of itself. 

The only other thing he didn’t know in what was presented was the information on the other officials who were with Jack in making the exchange. 

He thought they might not like to be remembered as the people who helped the 456, and read over their personal information without any guilt. 

He could see why they had been chosen for the assignment, and could see in the reports on them after the fact that they, like Jack, hadn’t been as unaffected as it had been hoped they would be. 

In al cases a note in increased drinking had been made, and one lieutenant had died of heart failure, doctors’ notes on stress and increased paranoia suggesting more than the proposed survivor’s guilt and PTSD.

His next query was of Torchwood Cardiff, recovery after the 456’s show (pulling up the memory of the exact date wasn’t a problem), and the reparations being made to the Hub. 

Several videos were brought up, a number of them coming from YouTube, and Ianto watched the ones new to him. 

(He didn’t much want to see himself die again, thank you. It was _embarrassing_. And honestly, to think it’d gone _viral_ …)

As he watched the government officials try to cover their arses, of the news on Bridget Spears (Frobishers secretary, he’d had a number of pleasant conversations with her, before she’d assisted in the plan to have him blown up) and her rising popularity in political spheres as she sheds her unnoticeable secretary skin to show her competence (and Ianto is happy for her, really, despite blowing-him-up plans which he wasn’t in the least bit sulking over, even if he _had_ thought they’d been getting on). 

He sees reports of deaths and sees Frobisher and his family on the list, Frobisher having killed his family and them himself to avoid having his children given up as Alien dope. 

It’s no surprise that Mr. Prime Minister is being voted out.

He smirks as Denise Riley’s attempted rise up crashes and burns when it’s revealed that it was her idea to use the ‘lower class’ children, her career spiraling down faster and faster even as she desperately tried to climb out the hole she dug herself, and finds a video of his sister Rhi of all people slapping her across the face on national television. 

At his amusement, a number of gifs were brought up showing the smack, and a number of pictures and freeze-frames of the moment. 

(He’s honestly a bit jealous: she gets internet stardom by slapping the bitch willing to give off children she thought were useless, he got his by _dying_ and saying the most embarrassing things in his last moments.)

He reads over the rest of the information even as he rolls over the thought that his sister has managed to become a meme. 

He’s _reeeally_ kind of jealous, actually. 

He shoves the thought aside, and brings up a new search. 

Looking for mention of coming back to life brings up Jack’s file and the reports Ianto himself had written on Suzie and Owen and references that would have been bloody useful for when it seemed there was Death at the hospital, and searching for what sort of solution would produce de-aging like he was experiencing provided quite a lot of information. 

Not wanting to dismiss anything, and not knowing what would narrow his search without giving the possibility of missing something important, Ianto settled himself in for the long haul. 

It wasn’t the first time he’s done this here, or done something similar elsewhere, and he enjoys the fact that anything he thinks of as important information automatically gets saved. 

It didn’t make it any less time consuming, though, which just goes to show that alien tech doesn’t solve everything. 

It was still bloody useful though. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Rhys offers to help them get their things from storage, but the only thing they really need is clothing; they’d been dead (dead!) long enough that their apartments had already been rented out and they didn’t need to bring out the furniture. 

They stopped at Owen’s first, as his clothing had already been brought out once before, and so the boxes were closer to the front of the storage unit. 

“Second bloody time I’ve had to do this…” 

She stopped paying attention, and he came from the area with a large duffle bag, expression stiff, and they headed off to find Tosh’s things.

Tosh stared at her own storage unit for a little longer than was strictly necessary before opening it; she didn’t want to see her whole life packed away into one space. 

She did eventually open it, and was surprised that Owen didn’t say anything snarky about her delay. 

Then again, he’d had to do this once already. 

Tosh wondered if he’d felt as numb as she did, looking at her sofa, chair stacked upside down on top of it, at the boxes she knew were full of clothing and electronics. 

Her life, all of it outside of Torchwood, had been stacked up into this little space. 

Here was all she’d kept in life, here was the sum of all her parts, what she’d lived with for more than four years… 

She knew everything had been put away neatly; everything was in exact Ianto standard stacks (and oh, wasn’t that a raw thought, Ianto packing up her things…), and it only took her a moment to suss out a thought as to how things might have been organized. 

Furniture filling the back and the right half, several boxes stacked on top where they could be, and when she shone a light she could make out a familiar neat scrawl the words _“CPTEC. LvRm 3/3.”_ She knew LvRm was Living Room, and Ianto only ever shortened things to three letters or two to a sound, and assumed CPTEC was computer tech.

A small twist of a smile came to her mouth, remembering one morose conversation that if she were to die, she wanted her computer and hard drive easily accessible, since it seemed like Torchwood Three staff had the habit of not staying dead. 

(Ianto had wanted his suits properly pressed and stored, and the little shoebox he’d kept under his bed to be easily found.)

To the right, there were neat stacks of boxes, each with a label, and there: tucked into a corner was the sort of bag she’d always associated with hitchhikers anticipating rain. It was stuffed full, and when she unclipped buckles and unzipped the top, she wiped a small tear away. 

“Tea-Bo—Ianto make you up a bag too? Didn’t think he was that optimistic…”

Tosh sniffled and nodded, shouldering the pack and only feeling a bit silly that she was wearing dinner-hitchhiker chic clothing and accessories. 

She’d do better with steel-toe boots or sneakers, though, she smiled, even Ianto can’t think of everything. 

(He very nearly did, though, and it broke her heart that he wasn’t here to see it.)

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He knows he can’t stay here; for one, he had to figure out what was happening in Cardiff, and to do that it seemed that he would need to actually BE there, but he knew he’d need more information. 

Information of the kind that only Mainframe can give. 

He’s pondering on this—how’s he going to be able to deal with getting back and forth between Cardiff and London? And it was hardly an easy or covert thing, jumping over a safety barrier seemingly into the Thames—when a warm feeling washes over him paired with the sensation of having his hair ruffled. 

It was an eerie sensation to have forced on him, as his hair wasn’t actually moved, confusing in ways he couldn’t begin to extrapolate on, so he focused on what it could mean instead. 

He doesn’t have long to figure it out, as movement from above grabs his attention, and a lump of wiring and metal is lowered from the upper rafters. 

It’s about the size of his hand; large as it is, and when it gets closer, he can see that amongst the wires there’s a flat screen. It gets to his eye-level, and he has a moment of confusion—what, exactly, is he supposed to do with that?—when his eyes unfocus and a flurry of pictures and ideas flood through his mind. 

An iPod, a phone, a blackberry, the internet, a computer, convenience, travel-sized, connect to wireless, USB port, hard drive, earphones, Mainframe, Hub, motion, _take it with you_ , flexibility, compatibility, travel… 

And Ianto smiled. 

He’s got his own little Mainframe, travel-sized! He carefully held the device in his hands, feeling the weight of it and looking it over. 

His very own baby Mainframe. A miniaturized Hub… 

It was so very cute, and he sent as much affection and gratitude towards Mainframe as he could as he cradled his little Mini Hub to his chest.

He only needed access to a computer once he’d gathered more intel, and having a mobile Hub would make finding out about what was happening with Jack and the rest of Torchwood that much easier.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Owen follows Tosh into Ianto’s building, waiting with her for the elevator to arrive, a woman with a decent rack and amazing hips smiles at Tosh in recognition. 

He looks around the main area while the two talk, and doesn’t say anything about Tosh saying that Ianto was “out of town” but shakes his head when the elevator doors close in the woman’s face. Acted so friendly, but didn’t notice that Tosh was moments away form another breakdown.

Fucking blind is what ‘normal’ people were. 

Tosh only stumbled for a moment with the keys, but they were soon inside and settling their duffle bags down, and Owen looked about in interest. Sniffed, and frowned. Well that was weird.

He’d been over once before, but that was to do a check-up on his health midway through Ianto’s little vacation (and fuck if he didn’t take advantage of Jonesey’s previously unmentioned medical knowledge once he got back—made the worse bits of clean up much easier), but at the time there wasn’t much sightseeing. 

It was smaller than his was (had been, because after he died the first time he practically lived at Torchwood) (not an option now), but had a similar floor plan. 

The kitchen was separated from a living/dining area by an open counter-top, what looked to be sliding panels making it possible to block the two areas off. Looking down a hall showed three doors and a wall of shelving. One door opened to a bathroom, fair sized with a bath and shower combo (which was fantastic; he hadn’t had a bath he could _feel_ for ages), and another was a closet with a couple of coats hung inside. All were ridiculously neatly put away, and Owen took some pleasure in rumpling them when he flipped through them, hangers rattling. He took a quick glance in the last room, Ianto’s bedroom (also outlandishly neat, with what looked to be a suit jacket folded carefully over a chair the only thing even remotely out of place), before heading back into the main area.

Everything was ridiculously neat in a way that only ever happened in his flat when he was anticipating a pull. The only thing even remotely rumpled was the living room area; an old lumpy couch with a number of mismatched quilts and knit blankets covering the green upholstery, a few equally mismatched pillows scattered on the furniture in the room, one low maple table, and a wingback chair. 

When he flopped down on the couch, he found it was disgustingly comfortable, and groaned. 

He heard a small huff of a laugh from Tosh, and relaxed a bit more. 

(She was laughing; a bit, that was good. That was good.)

She wasn’t anywhere close to fine, but then, she’d been much closer to Ianto Jones than he had. 

He and Tea-Boy had a sort of snark-to-sarcasm kind of relationship, him providing more than enough snark, Tea-Boy the sarcasm (most times with the sort of blank-face delivery that would have made a mint at poker), and while he could tell a bit about the guy he hadn’t been anywhere near as close as Tosh and Jonesey had been. 

He could certainly tell a bit more about his mindset now, after he was dead, than he could when they’d both been alive. 

The packs of clothing set in the Storage Units said quite a bit about the amount of practicality and optimism he had. 

He’d known about the anal-retentive practicality, the neatness and order, and being in his apartment had solidified it. 

Considering he’d been at Torchwood Three before Ianto had made it there, he’d seen what the Archives had been like before he’d gotten his OCD little hands on it, had known before and after he’d been around that he was a slob and having the guy around to clean up everything had been just one more thing made easier. 

As a Doctor, he could appreciate cleanliness, but Ianto must’ve had some sort of Magpie kink for having everything just about glittering with cleanliness. 

(A nasty, and almost hopeful, part of him thought that Jack had certainly taken advantage of Tea-Boy’s polishing skills, and still expected somewhat for there to be a dry but barbed response)

He’d known about the optimism… to an extent. He’d thought a great deal of it had been squashed when his optimistic hopes for his maybe-not-entirely-converted-at-the-time-girlfriend had turned out to be shit, but there Ianto’d left a just-in-case-you-come-back-to-life-again-and-need-clothing duffle bag in both of their Units, and while there was certainly proof that some in Torchwood staff had trouble staying dead (or rather letting other staff to remain dead), leaving the bags of clothing and toiletries screamed of a bit more optimism than practicality. 

Well, the toiletries included were entirely practical.

Tosh was looking around the apartment with a wistful look on her face, the expression sad, and Owen took a breath to say something. 

Whatever he was going to say was lost, however, when he caught that scent again. 

This time, he recognized it.

“Hey, d’you know why it smells like a florists around here?”

He didn’t know what he was going to say before recognizing the smell, but it likely wouldn’t have had Tosh’s face crumpling like wet newspaper and turning away to lock herself in the bathroom. 

He wondered what it was he’d said.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He spends some time fiddling with the Mini-Hub, getting information from Mainframe at the same time, and knows that he will be able to hook this up to any computer and be able to connect to Mainframe. 

He thought this was at once a gift for him and a gift for Mainframe itself, as this would be a direct connection, and Mainframe would get more and more information, hungry thing that it is, but he was touched all the same. 

How many others had thought about being able to access Mainframe from outside of the office, and she was letting him in on this little ability? 

Again, probably done for selfish reasons as well, but he was touched all the same. 

Mainframe directs him to one of the larger food stores when he inquires, and he logs off to find himself more food, carefully placing the miniaturized Mainframe amongst his things.

He might be able to make himself up a stew if he could find what he had in mind…

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Tosh is a genius in the truest sense of the word. 

Working with technology comes as naturally as blinking, hacking into what most would call a tough firewall was as distracting and time consuming as a yawn, making and integrating programs needed as much attention as braiding her own hair. 

It just wasn’t a hard thing for her. Hadn’t ever been, not when her second year computer science teacher refused to teach her any longer if she kept interrupting to correct and question him. Not when she was rebuilding her home computer, not when she was making her own programs, not when she was immersing herself in the possibilities that were open to her with technology had she ever thought that there might be a disadvantage. 

When her mother had been kidnapped, and she’d been blackmailed and threatened into committing treason, she’d had hope that her flair for technology would help her until the end. Until the end, she had never once thought of her talent with anything like despair. 

In a similar way, she had never considered her habit of digging up as much information on something that interested her before as a problem, especially since it was one she’d developed while in Torchwood. 

Especially since no one would have or could have caught her out, and the only people who knew she’d told it to as part of a report. 

Or as a friend and fellow member of Torchwood. 

But here she was, thinking ‘Why? Why did I have to find this now?’

“Well,” came the voice of her best friend, “seems as though I’m dead if you’re watching this—”

Tosh managed to pause it, closing her eyes for a moment, pursing her lips at the sight of her friend. 

When she thought she had her voice under control, she called out for Owen. 

“Owen!” Her voice cracked midway through. 

“Yeah?” He was in the kitchen—Ianto’s kitchen, god why did she think it would be okay to stay in Ianto’s old apartment?—enjoying the fact that he had bodily functions and needs. 

She wanted to think that it was insensitive, but she didn’t actually remember being dead, only a dark numbness when the hurt was too much, and this was the second time around for Owen. 

The second one, and the one that allowed him to “eat, sleep, have sex, drink, piss and shit, and I’m gonna enjoy the fuck out of it.”

And she knew he wasn’t as close to Ianto as she was. Had been. 

“Come see this.”

She pulled the box of tissues towards her when Owen came up from behind to look over her shoulder at the desktop. 

She made it replay from the beginning. 

“Well, seems as though I’m dead if you’re watching this, and I hope that Gwen Cooper is still alive, and I know that Jack Harkness is, and as much as I hope that I die doing something for the grater good, it’s also likely a Weevil got me. 

(In an Undertone) Gods, I hope I didn’t get taken down by a Weevil. 

I got this idea from Tosh’s video, _[“You have a video?” “Shush Owen.”]_ –how Tosh got brought back to life (Pause to wave awkwardly at the camera) well, Hi. And Goodbye. Again. I hope we managed to get in that Matrix Marathon. (Pause, Ianto looks away from the camera, lips pursed.) 

_[Tears were running down her face, tissue scrunched at her lips. “We didn’t…”]_

I hope we did. 

_[“Oh god, Ianto…”]_

I don’t think it’s possible for Owen to be brought back again _[Owen snorted]_ , but if you are, you’re an arse, and if Tosh is brought back as well, go on a date already. If she isn’t, then go put a tub of S’mores Fudge ice cream at her grave, because body there or no, you need to do that. _[“He’s not serious.” “Oh god…” Tosh felt her face heat, and a trembling smile come to her face. Oh Ianto…]_ I’m serious.

_[They listened to Ianto say his goodbyes to Gwen, and both smiled a bit when Ianto started in on the possible new members of Torchwood. When he started to talk about inadvertently causing the end of the world by not talking about their problems, Tosh couldn’t keep in the sob at Ianto cocking a familiar eyebrow at the camera. It was a horribly familiar smile hovering about the edges of his mouth, the corners of his eyes. It usually precluded a little joke, something a bit sarcastic and possibly condescending, delivered so evenly, in such a dry tone, you couldn’t get insulted.]_

… if it inadvertently causes it, won’t you feel silly?

(Meaningful stare)

(Clears throat) Jack… _[Tosh wondered if they should turn it off, or skip ahead, it might be too personal]_ In the Archives you’ll find a file with my name on it in the cabinet labeled “S.H.T.F Death/Other Log”… there ARE other files in there, one on Lisa, one on Owen’s deceased Fiancée, one on Tosh’s mother and the people who held her hostage, one on the previous members of Torchwood Three, and one on the people from Suzie’s group and on Max, the man she Retcon’d and programmed. So in case you didn’t catch on, “S.H.T.F” stands for “Shit Hit The Fan”. _[Owen had winced at the mention of his fiancée, Tosh at the mention of her mother’s kidnappers, but both couldn’t help smiling a bit at Ianto’s creative use of abbreviation. “Always knew the sod made up his labels in the archives…”]_

But my file… well, in it, you’ll find (pulls out folder and pulls out one small stack of papers and holds one up) Information that whoever you get to replace me should know, including Myfanwy’s feeding schedule and exact instructions on how to use the coffee maker. And Jack I know that there’ll be a replacement. (wry smile) I know I don’t have a huge job, but someone needs to look after the Archives and keep the residents of Torchwood Three fed and watered. _[Tosh wanted to hit Ianto. He was so much more than that, and here he was listing all the things that would be needed to replace him!]_

Which brings me to the next part of this. (Holds up a small stack of papers). This right here is a guide to the present Archive system, so you’ll know how to find things and you’ll know where things go. Don’t rely on Jack for this. Don’t let him deal with anything in the Archives, or else it’ll be lost forever. _[Tosh remembered some drunken rants about Jack, about the impossibility of Jack having lived so long and still being unable to follow the alphabet]_

(Another sheet held up)

I know that my stuff will likely go into storage, but this is a list of things I’d like to go elsewhere. Mostly to the Members of Torchwood who I know, but there it is. As a side note, Tosh, if you’re alive, you get the couch, and all the blankets, pillows, and all of my movies, and have a Movie Night for me, won’t you? 

_[Tosh couldn’t hold in her sobs anymore, and Owen rubbed her shoulders]_

Jack, and this is important, you need to get this (Reaches off camera and pulls out a leather bound book _[Tosh purses her lips]_ ) from my apartment. It’ll be in my bedside table, but you need to get this. I know that there’ll be so much I wish I could tell you, or things I wish I had told you, and I’ll have written it here. This is my personal Diary. _[Tosh elbowed Owen when he snorted lightly at that and gave him a baleful look through her tears]_ There’s significantly more in it than my Torchwood one. You need to get this. Please. There are also files in my desk you should probably see, or at least make sure they get put where they need to go, but please Jack, please do this. I’m probably going to regret this, but please. 

The rest of the things in the file are various pictures I’ve managed to cobble together of the team, and there are copies in this file and in the one at my apartment. The Archives room is built to last through a Nuclear blast, so even if you set off an explosive directly in the Hub, it’ll stand. (Shrugs) Don’t ask why there would be an explosion in the Hub, but in our line of work, it could happen. In the bottom of the cabinet there’ll be a USB drive or two or three depending on how much later I survive after this will have all files and programs from the main computer on them. Before you think I’ve been silly for this, know its password protected. 

(Eyebrow raises, and smile)

74RD15

_[Tosh chocked on a laugh. One movie night they’d spent a couple of hours turning significant words into numerical form.]_

Yes, Jack, it is that with the appropriate letter-to-number changes. The Doctor is someone you’ll likely always remember, so there’s no fear of the information being lost.

_[Owen shook his head, because of course Tea Boy would put all the important things needed to rebuild Torchwood 3’s systems into the safest place. AND pose what actually happened as a hypothetical situation…]_

(Pause, and Ianto takes a deep breath)

Really, Jack… Please get my diary from my apartment. If… If for some reason you don’t… Know I love you. I do. If I haven’t already told you, know that. That, and that I don’t regret any of it. Before you go on to thinking to blame yourself for my death, know that that’s ridiculous. Don’t tell me you forgot that I worked at Torchwood One before I came to work for you. I went through Cybermen and Daleks, and my girlfriend being half-converted, and I came back for more. You shot the monster my girlfriend became; you let a little girl go happily with faeries to save the world; you sent a shell-shocked soldier back to his own time in 1918, back to his death, and I didn’t leave. You make the hard decisions that other can’t make, and I love you all the more for it. If you somehow led me to where I was going to die, don’t you dare try to think that you can in any way order me to follow you without my having chosen to follow you. If you were there with me when I died, then all I have to say about it is thank you. Thank you for making sure I don’t die alone. _[Tosh sobs, because she may not remember dying, but she remembered being surrounded by friends when things went dark.]_

(Ianto tilts his head, considering)

If you manage to find a different way to convince yourself it was your fault I died, Gwen, if you’re there, I give you leave to smack him. If not, then as a senior Torchwood member, someone, give him a good slap, will you?

Well, this goodbye is significantly longer than Tosh’s, but I couldn’t leave the file to being found too late—seriously, don’t mess up my Archives—and I wanted to be able to cover all the bases. So. Just think about what I said. 

(smile)

Bye.”

The screen went blank, and Tosh lasted for a full minute, counting her breaths out evenly, before those even breaths turned into hiccups and shuddering breaths. 

She didn’t resist when Owen turned her and pulled her up into a hug, only held onto his shirt and did her hardest to cry out all the grief. Tried not to think about how it would never be her best friend holding her like this ever again, how she would never again get ragingly drunk and giggle over faeries and their redecorating failures, never complain about the early hours Ianto kept to keep running in the mornings, never barter over which movie to watch when work becomes a bit too much, never cuddle Ianto Jones when the anniversary of Lisa’s death comes up, never be cuddled when a drunken nightmare of Mary wakes her up… 

Never again, so many things. 

She’d certainly imagined that she would die in Torchwood. 

She never thought about whether she would die before Ianto, or vice versa, and the thought that Ianto had to go through this suddenly hit her, making her cry harder. 

He obviously made his video after she died, and he looked fine enough, but she didn’t let that sooth her into believing that he was alright; Ianto was much better at staying composed than she was. Much better at hiding things, much better at keeping any hurts close and hidden. 

The only times she’d ever seen the even a bit of his problems was when they were getting drunk on his or her own couch, more often his, and even then it was always them taking comfort in each other. 

Who did Ianto have to mourn her? 

Jack, certainly, but Ianto had told her things were always different with Jack. 

It wasn’t always easy to talk about emotions with Jack, and Ianto had admitted that Jack had told him he didn’t like the word ‘couple’…

Owen didn’t resist when she pulled him to Ianto’s bedroom, didn’t protest when she pulled him down to the sheets that no longer smelled like flowers and cedar, no longer smelled like Ianto or his shampoo, and went still when she arranged him for a cuddle. 

She needed one, and damn the embarrassment that was creeping through her grief, she was getting a cuddle. 

She only wished she had ice cream…

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto settled into the cot in one of the nearby break rooms, exhausted, and thankful that this time he would be passing out in a familiar place. Somewhere he didn’t have to worry about Faeries or thugs, somewhere he didn’t have nightmares about save for worries about what could have been rather than what had been, and lets darkness overtake him.

He doesn’t dream that night.  

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

When Tosh woke up, Owen was still asleep, (Ianto would have already been up, glass of water by the bedside to deal with dehydration from a good cry, and breakfast getting ready on the stove), and her heart squeezed from the sense of loss. 

Her best friend was dead. 

She’d heard it, learned it, and had thought she’d been dealing with it, and it was only now that it was really sinking in. 

It’d taken her best friend saying he was dead through a video that had made her actually start to process the information, rather than letting it float at the back of her mind, and all she wanted was a drink and a tub of ice cream. 

Maybe two. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

It was very hard to wake up, and Ianto remembered that, as a child, he could happily sleep in until after noon if someone didn’t come wake him. Happily he still had a number of habits that reassured him that his life had _actually_ happened (it was a worry, being in his childhood body, even while surrounded by Torchwood), and he was awake early enough that he would, had he been waking to go to work, have enough time to get a jog and a shower in.

He has to wait until the monitors say that it’s low tide again, when the only cameras set up to watch the Dead Zone said that things were clear, and in that time he repacks his bag and adding the few extra shirts he’d found in the break rooms to his small wardrobe. They’d be huge on him, but while he could wear a pair of jeans a few days in a row and not feel horrible, he wasn’t in the least bit comfortable wearing shirts for more than two days. 

He’d spent more than enough time in his actual youth smelling unwashed and unlaundered, and he really didn’t want to repeat it. 

He chewed on the dried provisions that were stored down here, jerky and dried fruit never being more appreciated, and half-heartedly searched for coffee grounds in the shelves. 

He didn’t find any, even when standing on the countertops to search through cupboards, and gave more than a half-hearted glare at the deceitful coffeemaker that prompted the search. 

If ever there was a situation that called for a good cup of coffee, it was this one. 

He settled for a cup of tea, and thought that perhaps it was just as well that he was getting a good cup of tea than a cup of I-did-my-best-but-it’s-still-not-great coffee.

(He didn’t much like tea, though.)

He checked his bag once again, and rerolled a pair of jeans tighter to make more room. He wrapped the little bit of Mainframe (he’d thought of it as his Mini-Hub when he woke up, but knew he could come up with a better name) in one of the shirts to make it a bit more protected from any sort of jostling or possible theft, taking a deep breath when a small chime sounded low tide. 

It would certainly be an adventure, making his way back to Cardiff, and he didn’t half-wish he could feel a bit more childish delight at the thought of such an adventure. 

He shouldered his pack and headed down the sterile hallways, glad to have a plan in any case. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Feeling confident (he knew he shouldn’t have, because timing is _everything_ in Torchwood, and part of that is tied into confidence), Ianto felt for the invisible ladder at the end of the catwalk (and wasn’t that a terrifying thing to climb), and pulled himself up and over the railing before getting out of the area and away from the people giving him concerned and alarmed looks.

He headed away from the area, features set into an expression of purposeful nonchalance, and the murmurings and wide-eyed looks faded. Obviously it wasn’t such a big deal, and he was on his way anyway, best not to dwell really, especially since there was nothing down there. Just another mystery, better move along with the rest of the civilians. 

He had what he was calling his Mini Hub (for now, he could think up a better name later), he was rested, fed, watered; all those things you generally worried about with children, and he would be his efficient and vaguely workaholic self and get things done. 

He would get himself a computer (and there’s a thought, what if he went to that one place… He’d had them placed inside, he was sure of it), hack into the servers of Torchwood’s database, and figure what the hell was going on. 

He had the goal, he had the tools, he just needed to stay positive, keep from focusing that he was in the body of his 8-10 year old self, and stay pumped and positive. 

He could do this. 

He was thinking this when he caught sight of three leather-jacket clad men heading his way, large and thick necked and armed, and while there was more to their descriptions, labeling them as ‘Goons’ and/or ‘Thugs’ would convey the same message. They seemed pretty familiar, and from the look of things, they thought the same of him.

“Fuck.”

And Ianto ran.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He heard a shout behind him, and sprinted as fast as he could. If he could reach an alleyway, he might be able to find a place to lose them. If he could make it, he could escape like he did last time (assuming that these gun-toting Goons are from the same stock, and Ianto assumes so because he hadn’t had reason to think the word ‘Goon’ so many times in a very long time). 

Hope rears it’s head when he reaches a crossroads, and nearly gets himself run over by a blacked out van. This close, he can see more Goons inside. 

But there’s still hope, and Ianto runs the way the van came (it’ll take time to turn around, and Hope peeks it’s head up once more as an alleyway gets closer, closer…

A gunshot rings out and hits Hope right between the eyes. 

On Ianto, the bullet rips through his side and into his stomach, and his legs give out.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

There’s pain in his stomach and his heart feels like it’s in his throat, because _gods_ it hurts, it hurt it hurt it hurt so much, please make it stop, stop, there were hands on him, it _hurt_ so much more, pressure on his abdomen, stop it, _stop it_ , and weightlessness and dizzying heights until he is jarred some indeterminable time later when he lands on the hard-padded seat. 

“ _Ffyc_ …” swearing in Welsh was always so much more rewarding, but he did it now because it required less concentration to say than ‘fuck’, and didn’t sound like anything else when said through clenched teeth. 

He bellows when more pressure is put on his abdomen, and there’s so much pain, so much…

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Years pass, eons, and the pain is still there, and big hands keep pressing down, he can’t feel his legs, and isn’t that a laugh? Can’t feel his legs but his stomach feels like its dissolving one cell at a time, and he can hear his heartbeat over the man next to him swearing, stuttering…

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

In the starkness of the day, Tosh remembers Ianto, his dry humor, his perfect coffee, the sound of his laugh, the comfort of cuddling up to him, of liquor in hot chocolate, of staring into his frightened eyes as a monster holds a cleaver to his throat, of crying in his arms and having him cry into hers, of knowing that at the end of a rough day she could cuddle up to him on his ugly couch, and she tied a knot. 

She sets the handkerchief on the windowsill, starkly red in the grey light through the window, and decides to look up Welsh mythology and superstitions. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto wonders if his worst nightmares as a teen lives up to this horror story, and has a moment to wonder if he was happy or not that he didn’t find Jack.

He wonders if his death would have affected Jack a second time. 

He wonders if Jack had ever died from a gut wound, and if he’d ever had nightmares about the possibility. 

And then Ianto Jones stops wondering.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, a (very) long awaited chapter. Just so you know I have part of chapter 5, and ALL of chapter 4 written, because my mind went into Time Lord Mode and skipped ahead to what was at the time more interesting bits. Yes, I’m one of those people who thinks ahead so far that I have to write things down or else I’ll forget what I had been thinking when I actually GET to that part in the story. So, chapter 4 will be up shortly (have to edit like hell, because I wrote a great deal of it when I was feeling dramatic, and that means lots of run on sentences and a lot of parts where I was pretty obviously over emotional over my own writing.)
> 
> Thank you for your patience, and thank you to all the lovely reviewers/commenters and I hope you continue to enjoy. 
> 
> The bit with Mainframe was hard to write btw, and hopefully it doesn’t come out as awkwardly as I fear. (Had to write it TWICE since I forgot to save it when I was on a roll, and ended up writing it differently since I made it sound creepy and manipulative as hell.)
> 
> Tell me what you think, and look forward to the next chapter since hopefully it will shed some light, and maybe cast some more confusion, but will probably be interesting at least.
> 
> Also there will not be as huge a gap. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone, you’ve all been so supportive and patient!


	4. My Body by Young the Giant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> READ CHAPTER 3 BEFORE THIS!  
> To people reading this in the future, it's because I had a teaser chapter up before this, and Ao3 doesn't yet have a button to let me delete that chapter entirely, so I updated it and hoped for the best.  
> (I don't think it sent out an update telling you I added more than 9k to the chapter)  
> Warning for torture and graphic violence, this is your trigger warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, read chapter 3 first! You will be SO confused otherwise!  
> Hopefully some things are made clear in this chapter!  
> And...  
> EACH CHAPTER IS 10K. Patience for the next chapter… or not.  
> I was telling my sister that I already had a scene after the next one set up in my mind, and she suggested that I write it out already since it’s there, so I did. That was about 7k. Then I had to finish writing the scene before that, and decided to split off what I had written already from this chapter, which is why I have chapter 4 ready so quickly…  
> And why it took so long to update. I’ve had this chapter ready for weeks!  
> Hope you enjoy! (warnings in chpt summary)

 Ianto Jones takes a deep breath and exhales Green-Blue-Gold as he wakes up. Then he feels hungry. And confused. 

The man next to him swears when he sits up, and he’s dizzy for a moment because everything’s still but moving—ah, he’s in a car. What?

He shifts, and feels stretched out, arms aching, knees hurt, and a phantom pain in his stomach behind the churning feeling of hunger. 

He could really use a sandwich. 

He sees an arm swinging towards his face.

Darkness, and a pain in his temple throbs.

What?

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

“I don’t suppose you’ll get me a sandwich or some other kind of food, will you?” Ianto asks hopefully, though it feels unlikely, as he’s hog tied to a chair. He looks up when a man in a suit—a rather nice one; a rather old cut though, even if it was a classic one—enters the room he’s in. 

Silver at the temples, but otherwise hair as dark as his own, age just showing on his face, and if it wasn’t for the eyes Ianto would have placed him with a number of pale older gentlemen, the sort that would ruminate about the good old days but still move with the times.

But those sorts of men usually didn’t look at people like they were science rats, a bug under the microscope, just there to experiment with. 

He shifted in his bonds, glancing at the men with guns placed around the room, noticed the shift of a gun’s grip under the fabric of the mans suit jacket, and when he glances down at himself, he stops to stare a bit. 

It might be the knock to the head, but he didn’t think he’d fit into a chair like this. 

His feet were flat on the floor, ankles cuffed to the legs, and he would have thought that would only be possible at his body’s age if it were a much smaller chair. 

He glanced at the chair the Suit-ed man was in, and back to his own. 

Didn’t seem that much smaller. 

Well, whatever they did (healing his stomach? Or making him _think_ he’d been shot? Either way it said Alien), maybe it made him a bit taller. Perhaps something to speed up healing, but also stimulates growth? He’d have to think up a name for it later…

He looked up again, and raised an eyebrow at the man. 

“I don’t suppose I’ll be getting that sandwich then…?”

The man twisted his lips into something like a smile, but so very far from it, and gestured to one of the Goons. He had a number of them. The Goon lifted his Browning, and aimed it at Ianto. He frowned.

“What is this, the London Mafia?”

There was that not-smile again.

“We’re based just outside of Cardiff, actually. Shoot him.”

The man lifted his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto breathed in deeply, waking up to an after image of green-blue-gold, and the hunger nudged at him. That had _looked_ like a Browning… 

“How are you doing this?” The man asked, eyes still assessing Ianto like he was an experiment. 

Ianto blinked, but otherwise kept his face schooled. 

What? Shouldn’t he be asking _them_ that?

“Again.”

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto breathed in deeply, waking up to an after image of green-blue-gold, and he was really confused and hungry. His bonds were a bit looser, and he squirmed.

What?

That was definitely a Browning. Another Goon came up behind him and tightened the rope around his wrists up again.

What? 

_What?_

“What?”

“We can do this all day, kid.” A nod to the goon in front of him.

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

There was a fine mist dissipating in front of his face when he woke up, green, blue and gold, and Ianto blinked to clear his eyes.

What?

What?

What?

He was feeling extremely slow on the uptake, but—

_What?_

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto stared at the men around him with growing horror, ignoring the green-blue -gold mist.

(Not that it showed on his face.)

What? This could not be happening. What the hell? _What the_ _hell_?

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto breathed in through the green-blue-gold, and shook his head, gnawing at his lip a moment. He was really hungry, stomach gurgling embarrassingly loud.

Men were going through his backpack, showing the food and clothing to the Boss Man (he would have to figure out another name for the guy), and his heart leapt to his throat when they pulled out his Mini Hub. The Goon holding it glanced at it, snorted. “A recorder, kid? Really? If it was an iPod at least I wouldn’t be so goddamn bored…” The Boss Man speared the Thug with a glance, and examined his Mini-Hub, tilting it this way and that before setting it down on his other things.

What? Ianto didn’t let anything show on his face, not the confusion and relief, not the shock or horror, and the answer came to him. Sluggishly. 

(Ianto couldn’t think normally when he was hungry, let alone when he was starving)

A Chameleon circuit? Like the Lift in the Hub, but more like the files on the TARDIS and it’s supposed ability to blend in. Huh. Ianto would be far more interested in that if he wasn’t so hungry. He could really go for a sandwich. Or several.)

He was distracted a moment, wondering why the TARDIs looked like a blue Police Box if it had one, and had a moment to doubt the files Torchwood One had before the Boss Man apparently got bored of his silence, and nodded to a Goon.

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He ignored the Green-Blue-Gold when he opened his eyes.

Ianto hadn’t felt this blindly, uselessly focused on one feeling since he’d been on suspension from Torchwood. He still remembered the first numb week and a half, of aching at the thought of Lisa and making himself mugs and mugs of tea. He’d read somewhere that if you were feeling horrible you should make yourself a good cup of tea. So he had. He hadn’t drunk it. No, he doesn’t much like tea. He’d just stare at it until he noticed that it was cold and over steeped, and then he’d go, heat up some more water, fill another mug, and steep himself some more. 

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto breathed in deeply, waking up to an after image of green-blue-gold, and the hunger hit him.

He eventually ran out of mugs, he remembered hazily, and had moved onto using pots and pans—anything that could hold liquid, really.

(Because if you’re feeling horrible, you have tea. That’s what it said, so he’d do that. Tea. Huh. Should he have tea now? No, nasty stuff, really. Mulchy water without the mulch.)

He didn’t even know he had tea until he’d gone looking for it, really. 

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto breathed in deeply, waking up to an after image of green-blue-gold, and the hunger woke with him.

Didn’t know he had that much tea until he’d come to about a week later with pots and pans full of over steeped tea all over his apartment, and he could hardly walk a couple of feet without having to step over or around a cup measure, or a warped plastic glass (and hadn’t it been a good thing that he hadn’t drunk _that_?), or a frying pan, or a ladle carefully set so that the water and tea bag wouldn’t spill over. 

He honestly hadn’t realized he had that much tea, but it had been something to do to clean up all of it, and that was around the time he’d decided to go running and join a gym, and he wouldn’t be buying tea ever again, thank you. 

But this was somehow much worse. 

(No, this was much worse, there was no wondering about it.)

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto breathed in deeply, waking up to swirls of green-blue-gold in his eyes, dizzying, and the hunger nipped at his insides.

Grief was a wound that hurt but numbed itself as it began to fester. 

This hunger—literal hunger—ate at him. Excuse or acknowledge the pun, but that’s what was happening. 

Ianto was being eaten inside out by his own stomach, there was a shriveled and pruning bit inside of him that twisted and stretched tight despite the dryness (dryness despite his watering mouth), and was pulling the rest of his organs into itself. 

He was going to turn inside out with hunger—

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto breathed in deeply, eyes managing to open, of green-blue-gold, and the hunger gnawed his intestines like they were rawhide.

—and these men were going to witness it.

Was he speaking? He thought he might be around the amount of saliva in his mouth—and how was that that he could feel so mind-numbingly, gut-churning hungry and still be able to drool so much? He wasn’t much thirsty, but could you get full off of liquid?

Tea is a liquid, but so is coffee.

Gods, he could go for a coffee.

He thinks he says as much, but can’t be sure.

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto breathed in deeply, all he can see is green-blue-gold, swirls of it and his head is wobbling about on his neck like an overcooked noodle (he would eat it, he would, he’d never complain about noodles ever again, overcooked or not), and the hunger was him.

He was hungry. So very, very hungry. 

He knew he was still speaking, but it had the old-young familiarity of Welsh (Much less to get your tongue around, a good thing when you were licking your lips like crazy, licking and biting and wondering if it’d be worth it to bite your own lips off), and he wondered if he was finally telling them whatever answers they were looking for, and if they even knew Welsh…

Well, he thinks, they’d be a crap Welsh Mafia (based in Cardiff! HAH! He says as much to them), if they didn’t know Welsh. 

He knows, however, that he’s not saying anything important. 

Important like Jack (SEXY JACK!), like Torchwood (SHHHH!), like Tosh (LOVELY TOSH!), Owen (OWEN’S A PRAT!), like Gwen (FUCKING COOPER!), like Myfanwy—no, he does. But just Myfanwy. 

He can scream in his head as much as he likes about what’s really important, but he’ll never tell them what it is. It’s for in his head, it’s for Elsewhere, it’s for After He’s Eaten, it’s for After He’s Gone, and it’s for Anyone But Them.

Because quite honestly, if they can’t even give up a sandwich, why should he give them anything?

“But you know what I can tell you about?” he asks as understandably as he can with his mouth flooding, with the smell of the sandwich someone had placed on the desk, with his stomach twisting him inside out. Evil people. Even without constantly shooting someone, you don’t bring a turkey bacon club out to a starving man. Boy. Teen. What? Where was he? What was he? Somewhere in between all that?

The man in font of him pauses in the process of lifting his arm, and the man beyond that, the man on the other side of the sandwich, raises his brow. Silly Boss Man. Ianto raises an eyebrow back to show him how it’s done, and Boss Man frowns.

Obviously jealous of his mad skills. (Isn’t that the fad in America right now? Having mad skills? Or is it Mad Skillz? Ridiculous.)

Ianto has a moment to be free of what his body is screaming at him, has a moment to think clearly, and beyond the green-blue-gold he focuses totally on the man, hair silvery at the temples, wrinkles at his eyes softening a serious face, like a cotton blanket falling over a machete, and he bares his teeth in a grin. This moment will last long enough for a story.

He has this moment, because he’s going to tell them a secret, and they won’t know it’s the truth, and it will be _brilliant_.

“When,” he enunciates clearly like a drunk trying to show he isn’t, “I was a little boy,” a man to one side snorts, “I had all of these plans, all these brilliant plans, and you know what they were for?” He asks, and holds in a giggle. He has a moment to hear his voice, and it’s young and ridiculous, and he knows he’s grinning like a loon, but that just makes thing even more fantastic. 

“Plans for immortality?” Asks the man beyond the trigger, beyond the sandwich. His eyes are focused in a way they weren’t, when they were riveted and bored, fascinated and waiting, and a giggle escapes Ianto, because _noooooo_. He leaves things like that to Jack. (And even Jack didn’t go planning for it, Ianto knew that much). He chokes back the giggle after that, swallowing it down like the food he so desperately craved, and it extended the moment, because _dammit_ , he had a story to tell and he was telling it!

“No…” he drawled out. “I had bigger plans than that.” Because when you’re young you _are_ immortal, everything is, and it’s boring because you know in that childish wrong way that everything just keeps going until the end of the universe, except _that_ keeps going too. 

“Oh?” One silvery dark eyebrow went up, and Ianto keeps grinning. 

“Oh?” He mocked, eyes bright, raising his own eyebrow. “You don’t sound particularly interested, you don’t seem to want to know what I did, you don’t seem like you care that I managed to do it the same way as I wrote it when I was a kid, you don’t seem to care that I even still managed to do it with _chocolate_.” He said all this the same way he’d tell Jack what he needed to do and when, even manages the same eyebrow raise, though Jack never got the grin so full of teeth it felt sharp on his face. Like it would cut his own mouth. 

There was a taste of copper in his mouth, and Ianto stopped chewing the inside of his cheek. 

The eyebrow had lowered, and the eyes were looking him over now, looking at him seriously, and well he should. Ianto wanted to see his face at the truth of it all, so he pushed the moment on for longer. The moment would last; he had a story to finish!

“Oh fine,” Ianto rolled his eyes so hard his head flopped to follow the motion, and he was dizzy for one long moment before he was back. Back to the right moment. Back to the Moment he was sharing. 

Moments were important, especially the important ones that Torchwood pays attention to. They were usually the last ones. 

“I’ll tell you the time I brought out old plans, the time I didn’t change a thing about them, and how I managed to catch my very own pet dinosaur!” Ianto cackled, and wondered if he believed he wasn’t insane anymore.

Some part of him wondered if he could really be insane if he was wondering if he was insane.

(Another part of him wondered if insanity was a sandwich, would he be able to eat that? No, that’s just silly…

He feels disappointed all the same.)

But he was still laughing and giggling, and he thought he heard a sound behind him, like more laughter, but not.

Laughter like a gurgling river, like Myfanwy clacking her beak, like the creaking of old wood and the rustling of trees.

But really not like it at all, and Ianto forced himself to stop being poetic. 

But then he got distracted by the sudden hunger in his gut, the twisting and churning, and laughs again, because it Twists and Twists and has Two Ends Like This, and wasn’t it like the Faeries said?

And then he hears a tune from his childhood, and starts singing because he can. He takes extra pleasure belting out her name, and hears more giggling (but not) around him.

Paham mae dicter, O _Myfanwy_ ,

Yn llenwi'th lygaid duon di?

A'th ruddiau tirion, O _Myfanwy_ ,

Heb wrido wrth fy ngweled i?

Pa le mae'r wên oedd ar dy wefus

Fu'n cynnau 'nghariad ffyddlon ffôl?

Pa le mae sain dy eiriau melys,

Fu'n denu'n nghalon ar dy ôl?

He’s taking a breath to start the next bit when—

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Green-Blue-Gold. It’s all the same when he blinks, when he wakes up, he breathes the colours in one deep breath, and he has hunger, is with hunger, beside hunger, at the mercy of hunger, grins toothily at the men around the room (because everything is toothy when you’re this hungry), laughing as The Man Who Was Once Beyond the Sandwich walked out of the room. “Send me anything and everything he says.” Says the man well beyond the Sandwich, and Ianto lunges forwards, towards the table, and wrenches his shoulders from their sockets, and he curses handcuffs (except with Jack), curses chairs bolted to the floor (except with Jack) and curses the table for keeping the sandwich just out of reach.

(Jack would never be so mean.)

His mind is so jumbled it’s knocking around his head like dice and everything is a gamble, like a jostled can of beer and everything inside is ready to explode, like there isn’t anything else to think on except this rolling hunger beating up his insides. It’s like everything and nothing and he wants it to stop.

And Boss Man can’t even stick around for it?

Bastard.

He vaguely heard something else about cars and London, but who gave a fuck? The evil fucks did, but it was less a fuck they gave than a bullet, and Ianto honestly would rather be given the fucking sandwich already.

(Seriously. It was _right_ _there_.)

But Ianto wasn’t above being a bit secretly evil, because ( _he had so many secrets already_ ) while he’d forgotten what else they were asking him, couldn’t hear them above the pound of his heart, creak of his lungs, gurgles of his stomach, so he just kept talking between groaning for food.

So he talks about things in a variety of different languages, and loves that there’s some indirect translation there, and decides to butcher Torchwood in several languages, making it more and more backwards in different sentences until he’s just about singing about soggy logs and raining trees and hot branches and burnt forests, laughing through being turned inside out as his stomach ate the rest of him. 

But you know what? No one would know what he was talking about! Who would make a connection when he was a kid-or-not and singing, and speaking lies and truths and riddles and jokes and pleading for food, he’s asking you who?

“Nid oes unrhyw un, dyna pwy!” He shouts at them, laughing.

(More laughing around him, but the men are silent)

That’s right, No one, that’s who. In Welsh.

No one, that’s who. 

Nid oes unrhyw un, dyna pwy.

Who dat? No one, that’s unrhyw un, who dyna, nid oes, that’s right!

No one.

Exactly. 

He thought perhaps it sounded silly to be mixing up his Welsh and his English.

He thought perhaps they thought so too, because—

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Time is a funny thing. It’s more mobile than you’d think, more mobile than you’re capable of thinking it, and in situations when you’re able to recognize how mobile it is, you always manage to convince yourself that no, time kept moving at a normal pace, a set pace, and you just weren’t paying attention. You weren’t, or you were, and you were just checking the clock too much. 

There is one man who can feel the passage of time, and he understands that it flexes and stretches as a living thing, and sometimes twists and folds, that it can run with you or sit down with you when you’re dwelling, and because he’s always paying attention to time, it doesn’t have many chances to play tricks on him. 

Everyone else is fair game. 

(Let’s put everything into perspective.)

This is why, at the same time Ianto Jones gets shot and dragged into a blacked-out van, Toshiko Sato and Owen Harper are waiting for Gwen to get back to her apartment to explain what had happened in the months they’re apparently missing. The months that they’re dead. 

At the same time as Ianto Jones dies in that very same van, Gwen Cooper opens her door and bursts into tears at the sight of two of her dead friends, and she’s just finishing hugging them when she thinks to pull her gun and question if they were really who she hoped they were, impossibly. 

At that point, Ianto Jones takes a deep breath and exhales Green-Blue-Gold as he wakes up. The he feels hungry.

When Ianto Jones wakes up, and Gwen Cooper pulls a gun on two people who may very well be imposters, there are then people freaking out. 

Owen and Tosh and Rhys are freaking out because Gwen pulled a gun on them (“Bloody _hell_ woman!” “Gwen!” “Gwen, what are you doing?” “Until I know that you are who you _bloody well look like you are_ I’m not taking chances!” “You bring me back _again_ and you’re wondering if I’m an imposter? Fuckin’ hell!”), and the men in the blacked-out van are freaking out (“Well that’s bollocks, Boss’s gonna flip his shit.” “Too bloody right, he wanted to talk to the— _Bloody Fuckin’ Hell_!” “What the fuck!?” “What’s goin’ on? _Pay attention to traffic!_ ” “What the _fuck_? He was _dead!_ ”), and then that’s when Time starts shifting. 

It takes a very short amount of time to get Ianto Jones to what he later calls ‘The Hideout’ (“ _Drive_ dammit, _drive_!” “I _am_!”), and it takes a very long time to convince Gwen that Owen and Tosh are whom they seem to be (“Fucking hell, who else would know about me being dead—which I want answers on, because I bloody well told Harkness not to bring me back, and he did, and even if I do now have a pulse I’m gonna rip him a new one—” “Call Ianto, I can tell you all the movies we’ve seen on movie nights and he can verify. We still haven’t had that Matrix Marathon though, we keep putting it off…” “What the—movie nights with Tea Boy? When did that start?”). 

It takes very little time to have Ianto Jones tied up to a chair (“I don’t suppose you’ll get me a sandwich or some other kind of snack, will you?”), and very little time for a man with silver at his temples to be told of the situation in the van (“And then there was this weird mist stuff, and he woke up! He didn’t have a pulse, I’m telling you, and the thing is that he woke up different! He’s not the same little kid, he’s like an older version or sommat.” “I see… And you’re sure of this?” “I can bring up the CCTV, you’ll see it’s not the same kid, he’s different.” “Like he’s older.” “Yeah. Boss, he’s sommat different, I’m telling you.” “… Then he might not be interested in a job after all… not immediately… I’d like to see this myself.” “Yessir.” “If you’re telling the truth, I’ll have some questions for our little climber.” “Yessir.” “… If you aren’t, I’ll have some for you.” “…Yessir…”).

It takes much longer than that for Gwen to finally start telling Tosh and Owen about the rest of their team. This is made more fixed by watching convenient videos online, as these bits of time had been stuck down with pins by time stamps, but it fluctuates once again when Tosh and Owen are getting their things, getting to Ianto Jones’ flat, and try to settle in with memories floating about in the air. 

At that point, Time becomes meaningless to Ianto Jones, and a week will pass, a week full of thoughts and nattering nonsense in over 12 different dialects to people whose job it was to shoot and film him. 

In all that time, Ianto Jones will have shifted and thrashed in many different ways, and will have gained a number of bruises that last longer than would be comfortable, but certainly for less time than would be accepted as normal, and yet it took until the end of that week for him to thrash just so, strain in just the right way, for him to register the feel of something different.

It’ll be the fifth time shot of that day that he’ll feel the wad of handkerchiefs in his pocket.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Green Blue Gold around him, swirling, and he can’t see past it, can’t see past the black spots floating dizzily around his head, bits of blackness, of nothing, so Ianto doesn’t look at them, but it’s difficult since they kept creeping and floating to where he was looking. 

It was irritating, but he thought he’d look silly if he just sat there with his eyes closed. And really, he wasn’t sleepy. Just hungry. 

And grossed out. His mouth was tacky with dried blood, because when they finally consented to feeding him the sandwich (this was at a point where Ianto was spewing out random but true facts that didn’t mean anything about anything that he hadn’t managed to forget), he’d eaten it, and when the Goon in front of him mockingly patted his cheek, he’d turned his head and bitten the mans index and middle fingers off. 

He’d spat them out (and dry gagged, visions of Tosh looking scared, of a cleaver set to slit his throat, of chains and hooks set up to hang meat…) and grinned a bloody smile when he was backhanded for his trouble. He’d managed to get out one more random fact (“Did you know that it only takes as much force to bite through your finger as it would take to bite through a carrot? The only thing stopping you is your brain going ‘No, Don’t Do That’, and you don’t. Only works for your _own_ fingers thou—”) before: BANG!

Ianto wondered if there was something beyond hungry, beyond starving, and snorted to himself. Jack once told him that the English language was not the best when talking about time travel, and Ianto was certain that in some other planet there would probably be the word he was looking for. 

Possibly some Intergalactic Standard Mark Applesauce Dash V12 or something equally ridiculous. 

Humans are ridiculous, especially is the numerical system becomes what Jack says it does. He says this aloud, omitting Jack’s name for a general ‘he’ and he sighs, realizing with surprise that he was getting bored. 

Bored and hungry, hungry because he’s bored? No, bored because he’s hungry. 

People eat when they’re bored, but he’s just so damn hungry it’s not from boredom. 

But he’s been shot so many times, and all he really wants is a sandwich (a hundred of them) and a shower (an hour long one, while eating sandwiches, and he won’t even care if they’re soggy), and he was regretting not stuffing his face with the apples the Faeries had given him however long ago. 

“Did you know there’s Faeries? Real ones, not that you’d believe me.” He says in English, Welsh, a smattering of French and Latin, and continues.

“And I do mean _Faeries_ ,” he enunciates, and manages a laugh. “Not _Fairies_.” He winces at his own accent, American always falling Southern in his mouth (not like Jack’s, but that’s alright), but the difference is there so he’s satisfied. 

He shifts in his bonds (and how many bondage jokes would Jack be able to make by now? He couldn’t even imagine, and debates telling the ones that come to mind to the Goons surrounding him, but the more they shoot him the grimier he feels), and pauses. 

The he grins. He’d seen them go through his bag, scoff at his borrowed clothes, apples, and toss his Mini Hub—his Miniature Mainframe—to the side giving him a withering look. (“A recorder, kid? Really? If it was an iPod at least I wouldn’t be so goddamn bored…” because Ianto _cared_ if he was bored, really. But the thought of his Mini Hub maybe having something like a perception filter, a chameleon thingy, distracted him through three more bullets. Not anymore though. Had he already thought of this? That was boring.) 

They’d even pulled the folded up knife from his pocket, but they’d apparently left everything else. He flexed his thigh to feel the lump of cloth in his pocket, and a giggle escaped his clenched teeth. 

“Do you believe me?” He asks in English, smiling as sweetly as he can manage to whichever Goon is the closest. He can’t see straight, so fuck if he knows if he’s talking to a Goon 5, 10, or 50 feet away. 

There was a scoff.

“Not fuckin’ likely.”

The smile stays on his face (and isn’t that a thought, that Ianto hadn’t smiled so much so constantly ever, not since he’d gone delirious from being shot (whenever that started, however long ago that was)), and he turns his face to point more in the direction of the voice.

“I’m sorry sir, do I seem like much of a liar to you? I take it you don’t keep after your superstitions then, hmm?”

Another snort is his answer, one that was echoed somewhat around the room he was in.

Ah, skepticism. 

What a breath of fresh air.

“You know, I had Faeries visit my apartment.” He’s the picture of nonchalance, can feel his Trust Me face slipping over his features, ruined somewhat by the grin still in place and his continued inability to focus on anything because _fuck_ , those black spots were irritating.

“Oh? And where would that be?” asked one of the many Goons. This one didn’t have a Welsh accent. Ianto shook his head mock seriously.

“Now _that_ would be telling… but what I can tell you is that Faeries are a bugger to clean up after.”

“What, did they leave glitter on your couch?” mocked another Goon. Ianto giggled to the room at large at the thought. His voice was rough as sandpaper and grated at his skin.

“Noooo…. But that would have been even more of a mess to clean up.” Ianto was pleased; mostly the Goons had just listened to him ramble, not answering his questions, and so this was at least new. He was still bored though. 

(You can only skip and jump through so many topics before you’re repeating yourself)

“No, what they did was a bit more fantastical, and even if you don’t believe me—which you should, really—you should try to imagine this: My room was covered with petals, and they’d stuffed bits of lavender in my clothing. On my nightstand, _right_ where I’d left my phone, was a Cedar sapling. A sapling! On my phone! That was a bit irritating, though it made it into a pinecone—yes, on a cedar tree, one doesn’t argue logic with a Faery—and it crumbled into my phone. But then, if that wasn’t enough, in my bathroom they turned everything into a set up for a pond! Shower running, lily pads in the tub, frogs swimming about, sand everywhere, rocks piled about my toilet, it was all ridiculous! But, _oh_ , my kitchen would be a dream come true right about now…” Ianto groaned, and felt a new rush of saliva in his mouth. “A pyramid of apples, the floor covered with fruits and berries so ripe and juicy they spilled over your face when you bit into them. There were a couple of bales of wheat, and if I’d had some way to grind it up, you know it’d make the best bread, soft and moist and delicious… the smell might make you cum in your pants, I’m sure.  There was, however, a chicken with its head hopped off—feathers and all, just about still twitching—but wouldn’t it be delicious all cooked up. A full chicken, stuff it with berries, bread, onions, and some of the carrots and potatoes that were buried in the sink, roast it up for a bit and _oh_ , it would be delicious.”

Ianto got lost in the fantasy for a moment, and he could smell the sweet scent of the fruit, he could practically feel himself biting into the tender chicken, berry juice sliding over his tongue, he was _so, so hungry._ His gums ached and he longed to sink his teeth into something solid and edible.

(Not fingers.)

“Oy! Shut him up, I dunna want te be bored _an’_ hungry!”

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Blue Green Gold, Green Blue Gold, Gold Green Blue, Blue Gold Green…

Ianto woke up laughing.

“And then you’ll know how I feel! HAH!” There was laughter around him, and Ianto kept laughing along with it, because wasn’t it just wonderful!? Bored and Hungry, hungry because you’re bored, bored while you’re hungry, Ianto would get some of his own back, and wasn’t it hilarious? _They_ were complaining about being bored and hungry. _HAH_! He wondered why the laughter wasn’t always around, the stuff that sounds like clacks and clatters and rushes and gurgles unlike the ones coming from his belly.

There was a sound of footsteps getting closer, and Ianto grinned even as cigarette breath reached his face. 

“Why don’t you ask your Faery friends to help you then?”

His giggles subsided enough to focus on what the man, Cigarette Breath, was saying, and he’d said it in what Ianto supposed would be something like menacing, mocking, or some other delightful word that started with M but wasn’t necessarily the word ‘magpie’ (the only other word that jumped to mind), but it just started his giggling up again. 

It was one of those situational awareness things that let Ianto loosen his neck for the blow, but it was a mix of vindictiveness and an old memory that had him twisting enough to bite the hand before it could move from out of his reach. 

Here’s a fun fact: Your fingers are only about as hard to bite though as a carrot would be, and the only thing keeping you from doing it is you brain saying “no, don’t do that.” There’s noting stopping you with other people’s fingers, though.

Except the fact that they’re, you know, _fingers_. Ugh.

Oh, and there he was repeating himself. 

Again. Maybe. 

Fantastic. 

(Unless he hadn’t actually done any of this before, and wasn’t that a thought?)

But it was a bit if a funny fact, though, wasn’t it?

But the dumb fucks had already forgotten about the last time they let their fingers by his mouth. 

The man howled as Ianto spat out the finger (nasty thing, strange texture, and now there was more blood in his mouth and on his chin. Gross. Blech. Icky. Nasty stuff.), and he got a punch to his stomach to go with the forming bruise on his cheek. 

The laughter around him stopped, and a distinct feeling of menace surrounding him made him grin a bloody smile. He was almost used to the feel of blood coating his teeth, as unhygienic as that was. 

He ran his tongue over his teeth and coughed to keep it from his throat and spat the result. 

Really nasty stuff.

The man in front of him raised his arm and pulled the trigger.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto was still laughing, gasping, Green Blue Gold in his vision, still had the taste of blood in his mouth, and yeah, he was really bored of doing that. But he still had his things in his pocket, and that made this glorious.

“Why the hell not?” he answered, delayed and laughing.

“Faeries?” he called out, smiling. “If you help me out of this place, I’ll teach you something new!” He giggled (gods, he was doing that a lot), but got the sense that he was being listened to. (Maybe. Or maybe he’s gone round the bend.) 

By more than the prats around him, anyway, so he carried on. 

“Don’t you remember? I showed you a trick all that time ago, when you were collecting Jasmine, when you met my team; you took my rocks from me! That wasn’t a very nice thing, and I showed you my special trick anyway.” 

“What special trick?” Ianto thought it was the same goon who asked him the last question, about his apartment, and he grinned wildly. 

“You know my special trick, don’t you? You know _of_ it at least…” he laughed and searched his memory. “ _’It twists, and twists, and has two ends like this’_ you said, and then I showed you how, but I bet you’ve forgotten. So many other things to think of, and you forgot about my memory knots, didn’t you? Forgotten already from the Unchosen Chosen? The Impossible Possibility? _What does that even mean_?” He ended with a scream.

“Fuck, what the hell—”

“It’s a bloody—”

“Holy Fuc—”

Shots rang out and a smell like the inside of a flower shop greeted his nostrils, and a feeling like driftwood brushing his cheek was all the answer he needed for the sudden silence around him. 

He was still grinning when the cuffs holding his wrists rusted and fell away from his raw flesh, and only swayed a little bit when the ropes around his torso and legs went mushy and pliant, mulchy under his questing fingers. The fibers had rotted.

**_“This knot, You say…”_ **

**_“For Us, You say…?”_ **

**_“For Us, a Gift…”_ **

**_“For Freedom, You say…?”_ **

“Yes.” Ianto grins, and slides off of the chair to the ground. There’s dried blood, tacky and slick, but in that moment he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have any strength to stand. 

An apple by its sound hits his palm, and he immediately brings it to his mouth. 

Finishing that quickly, he finds another beside him, a pile of them, and he stuffs his face, groaning and moaning over the bursts of flavor through the taste of copper over his tongue, the crunch removing the stale taste from his mouth, the fuzz from his teeth, and all the pains in his stomach come back to him then as new food reaches his stomach and reminds his body how hungry it is. 

He knows he should slow down or something, but just the thought causes his stomach to grumble, and there’s a bottle of water—his bottle, one of them, refilled—and he’s guzzling it down before going for another apple.  He felt vaguely nauseous, but it would be a calm day in Cardiff before he gave up any of this food.

Fingers are running through his hair, long and large, and there’s a clicking noise about him, giant wings, and a soft humming noise, and Ianto opens the eyes he hadn’t known he’d closed and isn’t in the least bit startled to see himself surrounded by lanky green figures with arms like branches, grinning from flat faces, teeth like a piranhas. 

He grins back to them, and there’s only a little bit of Green-Blue-Gold in his vision now, but he keeps eating. He’s so hungry. 

All the apples are done, and the Faeries are still stroking his hair, his shoulders, arms, back, and they flit about and follow him as he stand up to search out more food.

He didn’t think all that blood on their fingers was from him, but that wasn’t important right now. 

That Sandwich had to come from somewhere. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He thinks that there must be something wrong with the fact that he was walking past and over collapsed bodies, giving hardly a glance at the red petals spilling from their mouths as he munched on his last sandwich. 

(Though he did have a crazy thought that he felt like a videogame character when he searched through their pockets for anything useful.)

He thought there must be something wrong with the fact that he wasn’t terrified at the fact that the Faeries’ attention was fully on him, that they were twirling his hair and stroking at his clothes and making that humming/crooning/growling noise at him. 

But then again, he had his handkerchiefs. He walked into the room he was held for whatever amount of time, and stuck his tongue out at the chair as he passed it. Stupid thing. He was exhausted, and that chair meant no food, no sleep, only dying and waking up to colours in his face. 

A light from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned to see a camera set up, red light blinking to show it was recording. 

He contemplated for a moment whether or not he should leave a message, or trash the camera and it’s recording, or figure out something else entirely. 

There was a chord attached to the camera, leading to a laptop, and Ianto raised an eyebrow at it. So there really wasn’t any way to make sure that the man from before didn’t see what just happened. Looked like it was sending directly to another computer. Or maybe it was a recording. But Boss Man seemed clever enough, even if he wasn’t smart enough to take a hint. Even if he WAS a massive cunt. 

He wondered if Faeries showed on camera… he smirked. If not, then there are random bits of his hair being twirled by an invisible force. 

He had a thought. 

The man had the Thugs and Goons come after him because of a job possibility (and wasn’t that still a hilarious thought: A Mafia based in Cardiff! And they wanted to hire him. Hysterical), but ended up ‘experimenting’ when it turned out Ianto couldn’t die. 

(Or maybe he did, but kept being brought back to life. That sucked. But at least he didn’t remember death.)

He frowned and hoped that Jack’s first realization that he wasn’t going to die wasn’t due to _x_ number of bullets being shot through his head. Ianto shivered and hoped that he would, eventually die. 

(Except wouldn’t it be better if he couldn’t? He could stay with Jack…)

(A small bubble of panic started rising in his throat at the thought, but he swallowed it down for another time. He could flip his shit later. Much later.)

(He didn’t want to live forever.)

And really, if it wasn’t the 456’s alien gas that forced him into this situation, then the next most likely thing is that the Faeries had something to do with it. 

He had to pause a moment to appreciate the sheer amount of strange in that one thought.

That would explain Steven, though. It made his heart ache to think about it, but even if Steven wasn’t a Chosen, perhaps one of his children or grandchildren was. Could the Faeries even bring someone back? It made a bit of sense, even when it didn’t.

Ianto frowned some more. 

He hoped it was because he was the Impossible Un-Chosen or Possible Chosen thing that they were talking about before, because he didn’t want to think about future children, not when his mind was filled with Jack.

(Not with Jack’s story about being pregnant before floating in the background of his thoughts.)

Anyway, Ianto moved back around to in front of the camera and gave his blandest smile. 

“Hello. I would like to say that was pleasant, but that would be a lie. You were looking for answers, so here’s a question for you…”

(Ianto loved non-answers and implications. He was _so_ good at them.)

“Do _you_ believe in Faeries?”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto had found some small screwdrivers earlier in his hunt for food, and had started taking apart the computer that the camera had ben attached to in search of bugs. 

He knew what went into a laptop like this, and knew what would be an upgrade and what would be a plant, and was nearly done putting it back together (sans two bugs) when one of the Faeries took the back plate of it an threw it over his head. 

Another Faery caught it and wheeze-choke laughed. 

Ianto frowned, but figured that they’d waited around long enough, and he was close to being able to pack up that he didn’t have any reason to make them wait around any longer. 

He was impressed that they’d waited as long as they had; he didn’t recall Faeries ever being known for their patience, immortal creatures or not.

“Fine, fine, I’ll show you already.” 

He pulled out one of the handkerchiefs in his pocket, and then pulled out another, one that didn’t have his blood on it. 

(He thought he was mixing up superstitions and mythology, and possibly some pop culture, but he didn’t want to willingly give them his blood if he could help it.)

With the same dramatics of that night so long ago (lifetimes ago, just about literally, if it’s Torchwood Lifetimes), Ianto folded the handkerchief and displayed it, thinking of Tosh, of when she’d shown him what most bugs looked like, then what her own bugs looked like, how she laughed and cried at movie nights, at her bad luck when falling for people, how brilliant she was, and folded the ‘kerchief in front of him. 

He tossed it to the nearest Faery, and grabbed the backing of the computer before it hit the chair to finish putting the computer together while the Fae chattered to each other about the knot. 

Ianto was starting to get worried about the lack of reaction he was having to them, at his dismissive attitude, and wondered if this was what shock felt like. He had shock before, but he couldn’t remember it exactly. He was just too tired to think clearly right now.

He wondered if a blanket would help. 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

It was about this time that a particular man shows up in an intergalactic bar, and sends a note to a familiar Captain, directing him to Midshipman Alonso Frame.

Captain Harkness didn’t know if he should be disappointed that the accent that greets him isn’t Welsh. 

Doesn’t know if he should be happy or sad that that particular roll of vowels wasn’t a more common thing in the cosmos. 

As it is, he settles for thinking that the Doctor is the worst at hooking someone up, and doesn’t spare a thought at how sad the other man looked, doesn’t think of going after him. 

_Oh, Ianto…_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto shouldered his pack, now heavier from food and a blanket, a small tool kit, and a first-aid kit, and picked up the computer case by his feet. It was bulging oddly because his Mini-Hub was plugged into it (and hadn’t that been a bit of a surprise, the cable detaching from the little twined up bit of wires that made up it’s sides), doing something to the computer, but Ianto didn’t know what. 

Probably hooking up to the Internet.

It was an organic computer that lived off of information, and it’d had something like a three year fast even with the tidbits it got off of the Mainframe in the Hub. It was probably even more hungry than Ianto had been.

The Faeries were still in the building, trading he tied Handkerchief between them, and Ianto turned back for one last thing. 

“Thank you!”

And he tossed another tied Handkerchief into the fray.

A little ways away he managed to stop grinning, and turned his mind back to where it was however long ago, back to plans and Jack and Torchwood all rolled into a little bundle called survival. 

And he had just the place in mind to stay until he could figure out what the hell was happening.

Wasn’t it convenient that they brought him all the way back to Cardiff?

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The place Ianto had in mind was about an hours walk away from the Roald Dahl Plass, nearly into Splott’s residential district; it was the area that had started turning the neighborhood houses into apartments, but had stopped due to a lack of funding and interest. 

The building Ianto was thinking of staying in was one that had been boarded up and shut down to await demolition a year ago, officially due to a problem in the flooring (the paperwork suggested that it was unsound), various support problems (paperwork hinted at termites), an electrical problem (a house fire waiting to happen, really), and a case of black mold. 

Unofficially, it was on a leyline of the Rift, and prone to energy surges and lulls (resulting in a number of months of free electricity for the previous tenants), and the metal Caution sign drilled into the red brick said as much. Torchwood owned the building under a fake name and had the building emptied of residents and ready to be set up as a temporary safe house. Obviously not in time for the 456 situation, but Ianto focused on the fact that there had still been the warehouse for them. It had been enough. It had required that he dip his hand back into pickpocketing to make it operational, but it had been enough. There had been too much room for them to use all of the room, giving a different sense of space than the Hub had.

Not like this four-story loft apartment. The door was bricked up, the brick several shades off from being the same red-brown as the rest of the building, windows boarded, and the fire escape was rusted, the ladder that would have dropped to the street level permanently stuck out of reach. 

Well, almost. 

There was still a dumpster in the alley next to it, barely lit by the light of the street lamps, and even though it was on the other side of the alley, it was close enough for what Ianto had in mind. 

Standing on the dumpster lid, he made a face and threw his backpack and the computer case above and across to land on the first level of the fire escape. He winced at the sound of the computer in its case hitting the metal, but at least it made it over. 

Now all he had to do was make it himself. 

Rubbing his palms against his jeans (surprisingly clean considering how many times he’d been shot, but then, so was his shirt. He wasn't going to complain about a clean shirt, because even if he had a few to spare, it wasn't something that he could clean on his own right then, and he only had the one spar shirt. 

When he was actually a kid (not just in the body of one) he hadn’t liked being dirty, and that wasn’t going to change any time soon. 

Jack had only ever been able to make being dirty fun the once, and even then Ianto had had a much better time in the shower with him afterwards), he tensed, and then twisted as he jumped. 

Fingers hooked like claws scrabbled and caught the edge of the railing; the bottom rung hit his thighs with a low rumbling clang. Ianto could feel the bruises forming, and his arms trembled as he pulled himself up and over, old, chipped, and rusty flakes of paint crunching into his palms even after he hauled his torso over the rail. 

Ianto was glad that he’d grabbed the first-aid kit as he picked rust-covered paint from his fingers, trying not to rub at the scraped skin there. His palms were sill a dusty orange-brown from the experience though.

Shouldering his pack and picking up the hopefully undamaged laptop, Ianto checked on his Mini Hub. 

It looked fine. Ianto hoped that it was actually fine. He hoped that if something actually went wrong with it, he’d be able to fix it. Or be able to tell it was broken in the first place…

He didn’t hope too hard though, because bad things happened when he hoped.

He climbed up the steps, ignoring the boarded up windows for now, and climbed onto the top railing, pushing the laptop over the edge onto the roof before pulling himself up. 

His arms shook, at the added weight of his backpack, but he made it over and sat for a moment on the gravelly rooftop for a moment to catch his breath; give his arms a chance to stop shaking before he picked up his new laptop.

The roof-access door was there, not boarded up and not bricked over, and Ianto let himself tentatively believe that things were looking up.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

For a week, Tosh and Owen had started to settle into Ianto’s place, and for that week Tosh had managed to hold in the urge to burst out crying every time she saw something that reminded her of Ianto. 

It helped that things were significantly messier than they had been. 

There was a bit of a schedule that they kept before heading to the warehouse acting as a temporary HQ, and Tosh thought that the fact that they were sleeping together might have made her happier, or else embarrassed, but she took comfort in no having to sleep alone. She always woke up before Owen, and it was usually about an hour before he got up. 

This was her alone time, when she forced herself to think about Ianto. To focus on the happy memories rather than on the loss of her friend. 

Tosh nearly made it through the hour that Owen kept sleeping without breaking down sobbing. 

It was the sight of the Matrix Box set that set her off, and she had to hide it on top of the fridge before she could calm down. 

When she went to make coffee she almost broke down again, but managed to hold things together. Ianto would have never forgiven himself if the thought of him made her cry about coffee.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto had to smash the lock holding the door closed to get in, and once he was he turned the deadbolt behind him. It was dark, and he carefully felt along the wall as he made his way down the stairs. 

If he remembered correctly (his memory was impeccable), the light switch would be… aha!

A bare light bulb swaying from the ceiling flickered to life after a few false starts, and an attic room with sheet-covered furniture was revealed. It looked like it was once an attic living room of some sort, with a couch and two chairs, a table pushed up against one wall with a boarded window at the middle. One door proved to be a closet with a lone coat hanger still on the rod, the other another set of stairs, and the third leading to a hall with two bedrooms. 

Down the stairs was much of the same, but with the addition of a large bathroom with unfortunate carpeting and a strange smell—probably a result of using carpet instead of tile in a washroom. The mirror was broken, only a rough quarter still hanging stubbornly on the wall; the rest scattered and crushed into the carpet. 

There was only one bedroom on this floor, but that was mainly because the wall that once split the room was a crumbling heap between them, a lone pillar, remarkably unmarred, keeping everything stable.

He did have to remind himself of that fact: that it was _all_ stable. There were a few broken down walls, but the pillars that held everything up were cement and immovable: stable. 

The next level down was largely dominated by an open concept kitchen obviously built to be able to hold more than five residents, and there were three smaller rooms and a sort of dining/sitting room area. There was more sheet-covered furniture, another table, and there were a couple of cupboard doors missing. An industrial sized freezer, the sort that advertised by saying how many deer could fit into it, was set up next to an old, but also large fridge. 

There was also a cat. 

It was staring at Ianto from its perch in one of the cupboard, mottled brown and orange and glaring. 

Huh. Ianto wondered, since it was entirely possible that the Cat decided that this is its territory, if that made it a feral cat or a house cat. 

That train of thought was quickly abandoned. 

Ianto headed for the stairs, and thought that at least there wasn’t a rat problem. 

The first thing he saw when he reached the first floor was a large crate. 

The first thing he thought, was _Thank God they got it in before the door was sealed off…_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Tosh and Owen didn’t talk about her break down the previous night (Owen had made the mistake of referring to Ianto as ‘tea-boy’ when Tosh had been feeling particularly emotional), didn’t talk about the tears that escaped Owen’s eyes in quiet moments when he has time to actually _think_ (though Owen awkwardly huffed about getting used to controlling all his faculties), and breakfast was a quiet affair. 

They shared a smile over the coffee though; because of course Ianto would reuse brand-name tins to hold his own mix. They had been steadily working through the dozen tins kept in his cupboards, and each and every blend was fantastic.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The crate, as soon as he pried the lid off with the crowbar conveniently placed on top of it, had all the equipment he needed to set this building up as a second Hub, a safe hideout. Putting the packing straw aside as he started carefully pulling out the large screens inside, setting them carefully to the side while he searched for the supports to hold them up. 

Once he had them, he brought them upstairs and set them on top of one of the sheet-covered couches, and started making space for the Monitors and equipment. He thought he might be able to get everything up stairs… 

He didn’t want to keep everything on the main floor on the off chance of someone hearing something from outside. Also, on the less likely chance that someone would break through the boards covering the still intact glass windowpanes, there wouldn’t be thousands of dollars worth of equipment in plain view, with priceless information and programs running on them. 

He already had some plans as to how to make the second floor secure against anyone coming in from the street, and so long as he keeps the fire escape off of street level, no one should be able to get in. 

He was still figuring out a security system for the roof’s door, but for now it would have to suffice. 

The Cat had, at some point, moved from its spot in the cupboards, and was watching him with something like interest, boredom, and hostility all rolled into one. 

A bit like Jack looked at him, the first few days of him working at Torchwood Three. 

Though, he had to admit, Jack’s gaze was also sometimes filled with lust. Ianto didn’t care if the cat lived here, it could continue doing so, so long as it didn’t eat his food once he got it, but if it started looking at him _exactly_ like Jack once had…

Well. 

He could probably cook the meat, anyway. 

For now, he ignored it.

The Cat continued to stare.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you enjoyed having two updates so quickly, and I hope you enjoyed this even if it did have a bit of Crazy!Ianto in it.  
> Tell me what you think :D  
> (P.s. I’m crazy happy that the most commented on thing so far is that people are confused but want to read more: Means I’ve got an original idea in my hands, a rare beast to find on the internet CX)


	5. I'm Blue by Eiffel 65

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is slightly below 10k, but I'm trying to even out my wordcount to 50k on the word document that all of this is on.  
> I'm at 50, 256 :)  
> (I don't understand why there's like 200 more words according to Ao3 but whatever... maybe because I've been editing?)  
> Also, yes I’m serious in choosing this particular song for what works best for this chapter.  
> Ah, memories… :)

It took Ianto a little under three days to get everything set up.

The first two days were preoccupied with setting up the… well; it was sort of like a generator, but just a little bit more like a very complicated rechargeable battery.

The building had been bought and ‘condemned’ because of the power surges and strange lulls, the area located on what Jack had once described as a node of the Rift, meant that when the previous tenants weren’t getting away with free electricity, they were complaining about the flickering lights and black outs.

The generator would take the excess energy and store it, and use it when the lulls came, a program Tosh had written up when he’d told her about the phenomenon tracking the energy surges and regulating out the most practical amount of energy needed for everything that’s using the energy.

He used the area that was once two rooms to set things up, par of one wall broken away and showing wires that he’d need to be able to get at, and while a great part of the first day was used in cleaning out that room of the rubble, Ianto could see that this would work.

He would still need to find the circuit breakers that were already in the house, and find a way to connect the two, but he had to find the right wires for that.

The pieces for it were in an entire crate of their own, and while it was frustrating that Ianto had to trek up and down the stairs to get each piece, and even more so when it took even longer with the heavier pieces, he finished setting it up by the end of the next day.

Ianto was happy to learn that hydro was still being paid for through one of Torchwood’s fake businesses, and enjoyed a soap-less bath more than he thought he would.

Getting the monitors set up was finicky but not difficult, the programming and fiddling with hard-drives going much quicker than he thought they would (though he attributed that to connecting his Mini-Hub), and he had the last half of the afternoon to take stock of what he had, what he didn’t, and what he needed.

It became quickly apparent that what he needed most was food, a decent coat, and to that extent, Money.

He had roughly £250 from what he’d picked up from the Goons in what he was now calling _The Shooting Range_ (so he had a morbid sense of humor, so what?), but that wouldn’t last for long after getting a decent coat and food. 

He knew he had to get a larger coat, because if he remembered correctly (and it was entirely possible his optimism was getting the better of him) he hit his growth spurt in great jumps and leaps, petering out to his full 6 feet by the end of high school.

He brought out his stolen laptop and pulled up a spreadsheet to figure out exactly how long it would be before he would be out of money, and the estimate had him frowning in thought.

If he rationed his food and bought like he was back in a university dorm room, he could, conceivably, last for nearly two weeks, and that was if he got a cheaper jacket.

A good jacket, preferably down, could be up to and beyond £100. The one he’d gotten after his first Torchwood paycheck was a little over £200, but there was no way he was going for that.

That would mean he would be able to have enough food, if bought with thought, for a couple of days if he was stingy.

And, while he knew he could do it, he was wary of the possibility.

But he was equally wary of what could happen if he picked back up old habits.

Being stingy with food wasn’t something he was comfortable with, the extreme hunger he got when he died (fuck, don’t dwell on it now) aside; he was still in the body of a child.

His own childhood self.

He knew enough about children to know that they needed food roughly every five hours, not including snacks, and having a balanced diet wouldn’t be easy if he was budgeting himself so strictly.

If he had more money, however…

But he knew of the dangers of that.

If he took back up pickpocketing and theft, it would be extremely risky, more so than when he’d done it in his youth.

(Actual youth)

When he was young and cocky he’d had a _group_ , been a part of a gang of sorts, had _backup_. It was dangerous enough in that sort of life without having anyone else to look out for you.

He didn’t have an information system like he’d once had, he didn’t have a bunch of mates who had as much at stake in the success of a hit as he did, he didn’t have anyone to watch his back, he didn’t have a fence and didn’t have any way of knowing about any of the other gangs that might or might not be in any area at any one time.

He could go about pickpocketing for a while, but it was a risky business to dip his fingers in without knowing what other sharks were in the water.

But, any way he looked at things, he would eventually run out of money.

And what if he died again?

It was a morbid thought, and he didn’t want to dwell on it any more than he had to, but he’d possibly died at Thames House, and then when he came back (again, possibly?) and died les than a week later.

If he DID die again (and what if he did it in public? What if he was brought to a hospital? God damn it, don’t think about that right now…) he wouldn’t be thinking of budgeting himself, far from it.

In the body of a child he wouldn’t be able to get a job, and even going to the local Tesco’s would raise eyebrows.

Still thinking on how to get money without going back to an old, and best forgotten lifestyle, he dropped down into the alleyway and headed out for groceries.

(He did glance back at the ladder to the fire escape, and added oil to his list, and some sort of industrial cleaner)

He did get strange looks when he went shopping, but his Trust Me face kept away direct questions.

Arms laden with groceries that were as far from spoilable as he could get without resorting to edible plastic and the cheapest soaps he could get his hands on, he managed his way back.

At one point a stereotypically seedy looking man started heading his way, and Ianto didn’t know what sort of look he gave him, but he’d backed off quick enough.

Ianto still kept his eyes on the man though, and made sure he wasn’t being followed when he made his way to the alley way.

It took some patience to get up, and he ended up using the spray can of WD40 on the hinges for the ladder to get the rest of his groceries where he wanted them.

It made one hell of a racket; shuddering screeches and wails that had him certain someone would be around to investigate, and made as much noise being pulled back up as rust was dislodged and joints were made to move.

(If people didn’t come running from the sheer racket, he was almost sure they’d come from the racket his heart was making.)

He has just under £100 after buying as much non-perishable food items as he could carry, and it’s easy enough to hack into the nearest WiFi to get a better estimate on a winter coat.

He’d never had any need to remember children’s clothing process, but he’d need more layers.

It wasn’t terribly cold right then, but it was Cardiff, and that meant that when it wasn’t soggy, it was windy, and during winter it would be frigid more often than not.

He would be prepared.

He didn’t know how to prepare for the rest of the problems no doubt heading his way, but he would at least be ready for cold weather.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto does end up going out for a bit of pick-pocketing, because children’s clothing is freakishly expensive for something that gets worn for so short a time, and while he was willing to go to the local thrift shop for cheaper, used clothes, he ultimately decided that he’d definitely need a better jacket.

Better than anything he could buy on a budget, anyway.

He walks for nearly an hour before lightening pockets (Never Steal From Your Neighbors), and does his best to look worried and trustworthy at the same time (Keep That Smug Look Off Your Face) as he pockets that man’s wallet, that tourists purse, and stops a near-by Nanny to ask for directions before sticking with a Trust Me face for his escape.

He takes the cash (and God Bless American tourists for their tendency to carry just about all their cash on them) and ditches the wallets in sight of a police officer, before heading to the Jacket shop he’d asked directions for earlier.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The clerk who’d followed him throughout the store to keep him from shoplifting (Because _of course_ he’d be able to smuggle one of the bulky jackets on display easily, just look at all the hiding spots he had on his scrawny self) keeps asking him if he wanted to get a smaller jacket, one more his size, all the way up to the counter. Ianto keeps smiling and giving his Trust Me face, and keeps repeating his story.

Yes, it was a good size for him,

(It would be a bit tight on him if he was his actual age, but it would still fit)

No, no help was needed,

(Not from a Civilian, at least)

And he’d told his Mum he’d be able to buy his own jacket, she was waiting in the coffee shop just down the way, he’d better hurry back to her, BYE!

(He felt he should be a bit more distressed at how easily he was slipping into a mindset that could come up with convincing lies that would suit for a child…)

He wears the jacket out after he gets that same sales clerk to cut the tag (“But wouldn’t your mum—” “She said I could have any jacket, please cut the tag please and thank you. Bye”), and is only a bit over-warm on his way back.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He’s still trying to think about how he would be able to get money in the state he’s in when he’s searching through the Torchwood Database for anything new.

It looked like there had been some progress on getting things back in order—a surprising amount, actually—and he can see the number of Weevils that have been tagged and it’s looking like they were just about finished digging out a route to get to the Archives, which meant that Ianto would have to use the backdoor entry Tosh had shown him to Torchwood’s files to find out what’s happening.

He happens to glance beside him, and it takes him a moment to see that his Mini-Hub, something that had become somewhat of a background item, like a lamp you walked past every day, had three chords hanging from it.

It’s like coming out of a fever, everything is so clear.

He’d been seeing problems and working to solve them on his own because he’d been thinking of himself as alone.

But he wasn’t. Not entirely.

(Well, there was the cat, but it stared at him until it got bored and slept most of the time)

There was his Mini-Hub.

His Mini-Hub was connected to Mainframe, which, once everything was reloaded and reprogrammed into the Hub, would connect him to the goings-on of the Hub. He wouldn’t need to continuously break in to find out what was happening.

(He wouldn’t have to break in to find out where he needed to go to find Jack, to figure out how to get back to Torchwood without the risk of being shot. That was _fantastic_.)

He moved the chords to their positions, hardly noticing the tingle at his throat and temples, and shivers at the sensation of warmth of a greeting.

From what he can tell Mini-Hub is working the same way Mainframe would, and he wondered how much it would be affected by distance before getting down to the matter at hand.

He needed a way to get money that didn’t involve Ianto having to go out and steal to get it.

Immediately news sites popped up on the monitors, stories from the past two decades piling up, all with the same theme.

Ianto didn’t know what it had to do with anything for a moment, and after a moment a picture of a CFLBC card with Ianto Jones on it popped up, the emblem for the Bank of Cardiff drawing his eye.

Oh.

_Oh._

Ianto grinned, and more and more web pages were being brought up, profiles and bank statements opened up to show all those little secrets, and the stiff, hard ball of anxiety that had been twisting up his insides relaxed.

Things would be just fine.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

**~~2k~~ **

If either Tosh or Own thought that they’d be at a loss as to what to work on while the Hub was still being dug out, they would have been mistaken.

Owen was helping out a lot more with the Weevils than he thought he would be, and when he wasn’t making up more Weevil spray he was spewing vitriol at the trigger-happy idiots that UNIT had sent out to round up the rabid Weevils. It was obvious that UNIT was so used to having their guns on hand, and that they hadn’t had to deal with Weevils before that Owen felt like he was training the interns.

Particularly inept interns.

Because of the idiots, he had a quite the list of cadavers on the waiting list to be autopsied.

Tosh had set up a temporary Rift Monitor for until they could get at the saved Hard Drive that Ianto had put in the Archives, and was making sure that any and all tech that was being dug up was going into the proper storage… and not into UNIT trucks.

As helpful as they were being, there was no UNIT outpost in Cardiff, and so quite a bit of the alien tech that was just about common to Torchwood were things UNIT wanted to get their paws on.

Again, as helpful as it was, Torchwood and UNIT still had a somewhat shaky friendship, and that didn’t extend to sharing toys.

It helped that Gwen was terrifying when she was pregnant, and even the higher-ups of UNIT jumped when she barked at them.

It seemed like her mothering instincts were getting exercise too, as even the hint of a disapproving look made the people of UNIT shuffling their feet.

The Interns (an agreed upon name for the particularly new seeming members of UNIT) just about pissed themselves if Gwen so much as frowned, and Owen swears up and down that one nearly fainted when Gwen demanded to know where they thought they were going.

The Intern _had_ been carrying a box of alien equipment towards one of the UNIT research vans, and had seemed a bit wobbly when he’d responded to Gwen’s ‘ _Excuse_ me, _where_ do you think you’re going with _that_?’

It seemed like when they weren’t busy doing work that they actually had to do as members of Torchwood, they were hounding after UNIT and the Interns to make sure they didn’t squirrel away anything of theirs, and when they weren’t doing that they were trying to deal with the sheer amount of calls and e-mails they were getting.

Apparently it was one of Ianto’s jobs to make sure that certain people were apprised of what was happening within Torchwood, to send pertinent information about what they’d found, and there were a number of organizations that were trying to cozy up (but in a weirdly distant way) to Torchwood for the ‘tactless and uncalled for request for the termination of such an important organization.’

The sheer number of emails that had accumulated was astonishing, especially since even after the first day of reading through and responding to them, there were twice as many the next day, and the magnitude of what Ianto did on a daily basis had Tosh pursing her lips.

Tosh had to explain it when it seemed like Owen was going to continue being disgusted, and Gwen confused.

“It’s because of that video,” she started, “Jack and Ianto made a stand against the 456, and even though it got out that Jack somehow managed to survive the gas, everyone has seen them… well, they saw them die making a stand, and these organizations want to be able to show that they’re partnered up with Torchwood, even if the people don’t know that it’s Torchwood. But, because for the most part Torchwood is an unknown, that would be why they’re… well, they’re telling us that they’re friendly, but at an arm’s length. But people have been asking to see Jack since the video went viral, and since no one else can actually produce him…”

“It means that anyone who can would have a bloody good public image for as long as that video’s known about.”

“Exactly.”

Gwen looks troubled by this, and Tosh knows it’s because she hadn’t actually told more than a select discrete few to inform of Jack’s absence.

Cardiff knew, to a degree, what Torchwood was about, and it was significantly more now that Jack and Ianto were internet stars, and were keeping the tourists who were flocking to the area from getting in the way.

Thankfully there wasn’t too many, as most of the world’s civilians seemed to believe that Jack and Ianto were from somewhere in London, as that’s where the video were filmed, or else from somewhere in the states from Jack’s accent.

Very few were considering Wales, as Jack made it obvious even in the video that he was accustomed to being in charge, and people had naturally assumed that Ianto was more of a follower.

( _If they only knew_ , Tosh thought)

They wouldn’t be able to keep things quiet for long, at least not to those who had enough clearance to be in the know, but until they could get their feet back underneath them, the arse kissing they were getting was needed. 

Neither Tosh nor Owen could wait until the Hub was rebuilt.

The privacy tarps (needed to hide the fact that there was anything actually being put back under the Plass) would be put up soon, and things might start going back to normal.

(Torchwood Normal.)

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto had the personal information and banking statements of three people spread out before him.

These three people probably thought they were pretty clever. He couldn’t help laughing at that.

Don’t get him wrong; he knew they were smart.

They didn’t get into big companies like they had without being smart, no, but it takes a moronic person to think that it wouldn’t be noticed when some funds were skimmed from.

It was obvious to Ianto where the consistent fudged numbers were coming from in each company, the inconsistent numbers standing out to him like a sore thumb.

It was fairly crafty of them to do things the way they had, and Ianto had to wonder how many smaller businesses had people doing the exact same thing.

(He wouldn’t go after them like he was _here_ , though, though it didn’t keep him from thinking about going in and digging up evidence later…)

Embezzlement.

He hadn’t thought much of it before, the stray newspaper article talking about how so-and-so got caught after stealing X amount of cash from their company only driving home the fact that people were stupid, because _honestly_. Couldn’t anyone see how _obvious_ it was when people fudged numbers?

If Ianto was planning on embezzling from a company he was working for, for one thing he wouldn’t do it so obviously, and for another he would kept the fudging as simple as possible.

These people were taking a couple thousand dollars regularly, and were likely going to be caught within the year.

Ianto would have probably only take enough to plump his checking account to not worry about groceries.

Now, however…

Mainframe had already set up an account for him, faked personal information set up in a number of places, and now Ianto only had to wait for the card to make it to his neighbor’s mailbox (getting up early enough to check it before the owner of the building would be easy enough), and then start funneling the excess funds to his account.

He rather liked the idea of playing Robin Hood against these embezzlers, even if he wasn’t actually giving it to the poor.

(Well, _he_ was poor, so…) 

Mindy Haste, Joshua Clemmings, and Ivan Krushcaw would find that the extra bits and pieces they’d been plumping their accounts with would be missing, and because they would be paranoid already, they wouldn’t be able to mention the unaccountable funds.

Ianto would feel bad if it weren’t for the fact that each and every one of them were living already lavish lifestyles, and from what he could see they weren’t embezzling due to any sort of _need_.

(He was glad he hadn’t left the choice to Mainframe, as the first few candidates were people who _would_ have been ideal, except that he could read between the lines in their files to see that Tyra Shaw was trying to pay her Great Aunt’s medical bills, Hank McMasters needed to put his children through school while helping his brother through PT after getting losing his leg, and Eunice Bakely had inherited the debts of her gambling father, and on top of that had to pay for her mother’s care in a nursing home. Ianto kept their files and wrote an estimate on how much they would need, and made a mental note to get in contact and play an actual Robin Hood to these people so long as they stopped putting themselves at risk. He already had an idea as to how he could erase what they’d stolen already, to make the fudged numbers less obvious, to put up a cloak of plausible deniability around them so long as they stopped embezzling.)

He didn’t know what, exactly, he would be doing when they were caught.

He could, conceivably, continue finding people who were embezzling out of greed, and he could continue to stick to looking through companies that could survive losing a couple thousand dollars, but people weren’t stupid enough not to notice a trend.

There would be people looking closely at the embezzlers accounts, and would be able to see that the amount of money that was being added to their accounts wouldn’t match up to what was being taken, and Ianto knew that even it happening to three embezzlers would raise some eyebrows.

It wasn’t even a possibility that there would be any evidence that would lead authorities to his account (Mainframe would make sure of that), but mysterious loss of money always set companies on edge, and as much as part of Ianto still had it out for ‘The Man’ (something he still equated with large companies), people could lose jobs over this.

And if anyone noticed that in these three cases there was some remarkable similarities… Again, Ianto knew they wouldn’t find him, but even knowing that didn’t settle his paranoia.

Didn’t keep him from worrying about the risk.

He and Mainframe set up the transfer of money to his account, and Ianto had vague thoughts about setting up to get a checkbook, if only to be able to say that he had a checkbook to nowhere.

(Though who he’d say this to, he didn’t know quite yet. He’d certainly be able to laugh about it to Gwen and Jack later though)

He shifted in his seat, wondering how he might be able to get better furniture in here later, and when he felt the handkerchiefs in his pocket his mind went to his Mother.

And then a thought hit him.

And it was _fantastic_.

He remembered an urban myth about someone embezzling money from a bank, but such a small amount that no one caught on to him. He’d been stealing the half penny of interest that accumulated over time, a thing that Ianto had known about only because he’d had his mother, a banker before she’d had Rhi and Ianto, explain it to him. The interest was usually something like 2.5 cents, and what this supposed criminal had done was take the half-cent and keep it in a Swiss Bank account.

According to the myth, he’d stolen at least a million dollars from the collective interest before he’d been ‘caught’.

(But, as it was an urban myth, Ianto didn’t take much stock in it. His Mum had only told him the story so that he knew that even the Bank could make mistakes, and he should pay as much attention to his accounts as possible, and to do _that_ he had to do his math homework)

But the possibility was there…

He directed a thought to Mainframe, and he got a feeling like ‘yes’ along with an _of course_ cuff to the back of his head, and Ianto smiled.

Perhaps it was an urban myth because no one could place the blame on anyone.

Perhaps because it was someone musing on the possibility one night at the bar, and it got passed around until it was something that maybe possibly happened.

(This was Ianto’s theory as to how all Urban Myths started, as speculation that passed around a bar or club or, more recently, in a forum on the Internet)

But it was certainly a possibility.

Information on various banking cervices came up on the screen, and Ianto started reading.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

When the Archives were uncovered, it took all three of them to keep UNIT from blasting the door open in their enthusiasm to get inside.

“There’s nothing wrong with our Archives,” Gwen just about growls out, “and we’ll be keeping it sealed off during construction after we get a few things from inside.”

There were a few token protests, men and women in lab coats waffling about checking the supports, making sure that nothing was jostled or stored incorrectly (something that made Tosh want to laugh and cry and rage at them, because it was _Ianto_ who put everything away), and it took Gwen looking ridiculously pregnant, Owen being more snarky than usual, and Tosh not trying to soften any of what they were saying to get them to back off enough to get inside.

The doors sealed themselves behind them, and it only took one glance around the obviously jostled, but still immaculate space for Tosh to start tearing up.

It took seeing Ianto’s desk and workstation for Gwen’s already unstable hormones to crack, and she started crying too.

Owen did his best to comfort them, but the fact that he easily found a box of Kleenex (for fuck’s sake, does he have to have everything conveniently placed where you need it?) soon got to him too, and they all ended up sniffling while sharing one of the bars of dark chocolate Ianto had in his desk.

They did find the hard drives with all of the Torchwood programs on them, and Tosh takes the file with pictures with them when they left, locking up the door behind them and activating the emergency lockdown.

“Wouldn’t want anyone accidentally wandering in there,” she says with a shaky smile to the pouting UNIT researchers, and heads back home—back to Ianto’s place—immediately to start working on updating the programs for installation.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

It’s been a week since he’d escaped The Firing Range when slips off the edge of the roof and breaks his neck.

It sounded a lot like someone was chewing ice in his ear, and then he was waking up to a fine mist of blue, gold, and green and a phantom headache only just dissipating from behind his eyes.

There had been a long night of rain and sleet, and it had all frozen by morning, and he could smack himself for being so careless, but it was chilly and he’d wanted to check his neighbors mail for the debit card (it’d been two days since he’d had Mainframe set up the account), and so it really wasn’t a wonder that his sneakered foot had slipped on the ice.

(Ianto wondered what it said that his last thought before waking up was that he should really get himself a pair of winter boots)

When he gets up, he’s hungry, but not out of his mind with it, but it’s still a horrible feeling, and he sways on his feet, dizzy from it.

He goes to take a step, but has to stop because _whoa_ , that was different.

First of all, he’s gotten used to the feeling of being short again, and is more than certain that right now he’s almost half a foot taller than he was before.

Second, he’s wearing boots.

Third, he wasn’t wearing boots before. If he had been, he wouldn’t have slipped. This is something he knows as fact.

But that’s less distressing—less distracting—than the sudden height difference, so he focuses on that instead.

He looks down at himself, taking in the boots (ones he remembered as ones he’d worn when he was a teenager, and actually being _smart_ about what he wore when slogging through the slush and snow), the jeans, the edge of his jacket, and looked at his hands for any sign of anything else different.

Nope—wait.

He looks down again, and frowns at the hem of his jacket.

When he’d bought it, it just about came down to his shins it was so large, and now it ended mid-thigh. The sleeves weren’t going past his fingers any longer.

What?

A thought has him suddenly looking up and around (and yes, he was indeed a couple of inches taller), checking to see if anyone had seen his inelegant flop to the concrete, and sighing when he didn’t see anyone.

He sped towards the street, still thinking (because it made no sense at all that dying would prompt an early growth-spurt, none at _all_ ), and is only slightly distracted by the fact that yes, there was the letter with his new debit card in it, and wasn’t that a relief, because on his way back to the alley, he catches sight of his reflection in a cracked window.

He freezes.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Owen knows that Tosh has been repressing her emotions quite a bit. He knows this for a fact.

People see Tosh and assume that she’s meek because she’s quiet, or else that she’s only really passionate about technology, and Owen knows this as false.

This is proven the day that Tosh goes ape-shit crazy and provides the most entertainment he’s had since before he’d died the first time.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto lifts his hands to poke at his face, like there was even the remotest of possibilities that the weak reflection was just a very washed out doppelgänger of himself as a teenager who happened to have mimicked him entirely thus far, and even goes to wave his hand in front of his face.

He’d be embarrassed at himself, except that no, that’s _him_.

That’s _him_ , as a teenager, not an 8 year-old, waving his hand in front of his face like a loon, a look of wide-eyed shock on his face.

On _his own_ face.

Well, he was certainly shocked.

The letter dropping from his hand startled him, a slightly damp sounding _thwack_ as it hit water, and he hurriedly picked it up and rushed to the relative safety of the alley. It was much easier to get to the ladder, a run and a jump rather than needing to get something to stand on, and he clambered up, letter clutched in his hand.

He didn’t really know why he was rushing (it wasn’t like anyone would _know_ , right?), especially since he spent a great deal of time just leaning against the inside of the door, staring at the wall. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere, or doing anything in particular.

A noise had him turning, and he blinked at the Cat. It gave him an unimpressed look before sitting down and pointedly washing it’s paw.

It was somehow reassuring.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Myfanwy was being kept in a warehouse in an area where people wouldn’t be able to hear the occasional screech from the dinosaur.

Food was brought out to her, and nesting materials were given for her to be able to settle into the space, and Tosh, reminded of the Pteranodon by the chocolate in Ianto’s desk, went to go visit.

She’d dragged Owen along, because he hadn’t had a chance to look her over yet and he knew the most about her next to Ianto.

This is why he’s got a front row seat to see Tosh go crazy.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He moves away from the door and finds a nice bit of wall to slide down for sitting, staring at nothing in particular but also sort of watching as the Cat washes his paws, and tries to think this through.

Okay, he slipped (stupid), fell (alarming), cracked his neck (ugh), and…

Well, he woke up (green, blue, gold), but he’d done that before.

(He thought it was a bit silly thinking that like it was no big deal. Was this how Jack felt?)

He shakes himself when his stomach gurgles, and goes downstairs to the kitchen to get something to eat.

With a debit card he’d have to go get more groceries, stop somewhere and get cash out—

Which would now be easier to do, as he was older.

He was at least in his teens now (which still needed explaining), and teens had debit cards right?

Right…

But how…

A soft chime from his Hub-like set-up interrupted his thoughts, and he grabbed a bag of dried apricots and a package of beef jerky to work through (he really needed groceries now that money wasn’t a problem), and pulled Mainframes Wires to his temples and throat.

Immediately a number of documents are up on the screen, and Ianto recognizes some of the people from the accompanying photos as Thugs from The Shooting Range.

The information is vague, the sort of stuff that’s put together by frustrated police and stymied detectives and private detective agencies, but all together it did give an outline of a Mafia based in Cardiff.

It’s much less funny now than it was when he’d first considered it…

(But that happens after you’re brought to insanity and back, he supposed)

But what had caused the chime was the Thug’s e-mail, the one that Ianto had taken the laptop off of and had been searching through for any information.

While there was some leading information in both the received and sent e-mails, there wasn’t enough for him to be able to give an anonymous tip or proof to cause trouble.

In the week he’d been free there hadn’t been any activity, and now…

There was a new e-mail.

The subject line said **“Hello Ianto.”**

A thought had Mainframe confirming that there was only a video attachment, no virus or any way for them to be able to track him, so he opens it.

There’s only one short message aside from the video file.

**_We should talk. Think about it._ **

It takes hardly a moment for the file to be downloaded, and it’s with some curiosity he plays it.

He immediately regrets it.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

It’s a bit strange to see the UNIT trucks outside of the warehouse, but Owen thinks that maybe they took over the feeding from Rhys’ company.

When they get inside it’s not the case.

Not at all.

“What are you doing?” Tosh demands, face slack with shock as she looks around at the equipment set up in the warehouse, eyes always coming back to Myfanwy in a medium-sized cage with wires and tape attached to various parts of her.

Owen couldn’t take his eyes off of her, and thought the machines close by were modified from shock therapy.

From the tremors in her frame, he thought he was guessing right.

There’s tape around her beak keeping it closed, but he can hear the muffled croon from her when her eyes land on them, and he’s already moving forward before he can register anything else.

He can vaguely hear a UNIT representative talking to Tosh, talking about the tests they’d been doing on Myfanwy, and shoves the Interns away from him as he pulls the door to the cage open and starts yelling for the dumbasses to get the fuck away.

He’s glad he was planning on checking on her health anyway, or else he would have to bully a med kit from one of The Interns instead of using his own.

He hears Tosh ask who authorized these tests, and hears the Rep say “Well it was such an opportunity, to be able to examine a live Pteranodon, we just had to take it,” in a tone that said ‘well duh’, and Owen grinds his teeth.

For Fuck’s sake, he hadn’t thought too badly of UNIT before, as they were mostly militaristic knobs looking to meet up with the Doctor of theirs at any point, but the entire time that they’ve been working with them it seemed like they’d been pulling on their Torchwood One pants and making right arses of themselves.

They’d been trying to ‘borrow’ what they’d recovered from the Hub, they were trying to get into their files, their information, and now they were performing less than humane experiments on their dinosaur?

“Wait, what are you—Hey!” There was an abrupt sound of flesh striking flesh. Owen would recognize the sound of a good slap anywhere.

Owen looked up from removing tape, from glaring at the idiots at the controls of the machine, and saw Tosh storming to an open bit of table, already pulling her laptop from her bag.

She was typing furiously, and when the Rep and several Interns started heading over, she shot them such a wide-eyed look of menace they flinched back.

“You _don’t_ want to talk to me right now.” She bit out, the manic look still on her face.

Owen was only distracted slightly from staring at her in shock when Myfanwy, freed from most of the tape, started running the longest parts of his short hair through her beak—it was something he’d seen her do to Ianto before, and had scoffed then, but now it had his throat clenching up a bit.

But he couldn’t take his eyes from what was happening around him, because several of the idiots at the computers set up in the warehouse were swearing and fumbling frantically at their keyboards.

“Wh-what? What’s happening!?”

“There’s a virus—!”

“It’s destroying everything—!”

“I can’t—!”

Owen grinned, and turned back to tending to Myfanwy, spreading a balm over her cuts and giving tensed and knotted muscle a rub down.

“What are you doing?” He thought it was funny that the Rep had the gall to sound affronted, and trusted that Tosh could handle herself.

He glared away a few of the white-coated UNIT Interns when they started towards him, and rubbed the soft scales at the base of Myfanwy’s throat to relax her from tensing as he gave her a mild (for her) sedative to keep her from seizing up.

“Get OUT!” The shout from Tosh almost made him jerk, “If you don’t get out of here _right now_ this virus will be sent to your entire organization.”

He turned to look and saw some vested-UNIT goons heading her way, and was about to get up to help when what she said next had everyone freezing.

“You have five minutes to get everyone out of here before the virus is sent out, if you don’t get out by then I won’t have any time to stop the program from automatically being sent out. It’ll take me two minutes to turn it off, if you even try coming back here you won’t even have a Word document to fall back on.” Tosh paused for a moment, eyes wide and glowing with a crazed light, “I will _destroy_ you.”

The sheer amount of manic threat dripping from her words had Owen stunned for a moment.

Apparently it had everyone else shocked into inaction as well, because it was a good minute before there was a mad scramble for everyone to grab when they could and run out, knowledge of exactly how much of a computer genius Tosh was, and Owen was mildly disappointed that they weren’t going to try calling her ‘bluff’.

He had no doubt she would, could, and maybe already did do it regardless of the fact that the last Intern was out and slamming the door behind her.

Owen finishes up checking Myfanwy over as Tosh takes maybe a minute to rapidly type on her laptop before sitting down with a sigh.

She still had that crazed look in her eyes when she looked around the warehouse, so for now Owen was quiet.

He’d only ever seen her go that ape-shit before, and that was when she’d made a group of Nazi-extremists who’d gotten their hands on alien tech illegal immigrants, posting their information and pictures in government records as Terrorists.

This time he got to see it in person.

Because when she’s crazy, Tosh starts destroying files.

It was fucking fantastic.

Myfanwy crooned.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He couldn’t look away.

He didn’t know how long he’d been watching, didn’t care, because what he was seeing—

Well.

It was obvious what the video was of within the first few shaky seconds that the camera was being setup, because video-Ianto had been shot within that time.

It was _eerie_ seeing a younger version of yourself shot.

It was _terrifying_.

A shot, blood splatter, a moment of silence, and Ianto in the video breathed out a cloud of green, gold, and blue before breathing in like he was waking up and opening his eyes.

(Rinse, repeat. And again. And again.)

In the moment between breathing in and waking up, his body took on a glow, making him temporarily featureless, a white outline blotting out even his clothes, and then he was older.

Had clean clothing on, as well, as moments before the white t-shirt had a mess of blood playing down the collar.

Bang! And it started again, this time the glow making him younger, the next a bit younger, the one after that Ianto jumped up to being maybe 17, after that 20, then back down to 10.

(Rinse, repeat. And again. And again. And again. And again…)

He couldn’t catch a pattern in all that, and even as he was distracted by the horror of it all, he was listening to the audio to make sure he hadn’t said anything implicating, but the most incriminating thing would be if anyone got ‘Torchwood’ from his mangling of it.

(‘Soggy logs’, ‘flooded forest’, and ‘cold trees’ were hardly things that would have someone thinking _ah, yes, Torchwood_ …)

An unknown amount of time later, he did actually start seeing something in the age jumps, though it wasn’t anything as useful as a pattern; he was seeing the maximum and minimum ages.

The youngest he ever seemed to go was about 8 or 9, and the oldest he went was right up to his actual age at 26…

It was almost funny that any time he got close to his actual age, his clothing changed somewhat to fit.

Ianto’s just dying again now in the video, and he’s maybe 23 and wearing a waistcoat over a red button-up, and then he’s shot again (and again, and again, and again, and again…), and he’s 12 and still wearing a waistcoat, but this time with his old favorite blue shirt on, the one he’d had to throw out because he’d managed to get beet juice all over it.

(It would almost be nostalgic to see all this, if it weren’t for… well.)

He’s starting to get a feel for what, exactly, has been happening (though he’s no closer to figuring out _how_ , or _why_ ), when the screen abruptly freezes on him during his in-between glowing thing (Powering up? Transforming? Morphing… Shifting? He’d figure out a name for it later) and a voice over comes on.

_“I’ve no doubt you’re watching this through, so I won’t bother with any of that ‘if you’re getting this’ nonsense, because I know you’re watching this. You’re clever.”_

Ianto recognizes the voice, both from memory and from the video earlier, as the Boss Man. He didn’t get something so cliché as a shiver when he heard the man’s voice, though he freely admitted that hearing that voice directed at him ( _him_ , not him in the video) made his stomach turn.

 _“I’m clever too. So I’m sure you’ve noticed like I have that every time you die, you come back between the ages of 10 and sometime in your mid-twenties. That’s nice. I have to wonder how old you actually are. I wonder if you’ve noticed how much you seem to look like our little Internet star, Ianto Jones. That might be a coincidence, but… well. Ianto Jones died about 5 months ago, you understand, and it’s interesting to me that_ you _, a man who seemingly cannot die, should happen to look like a man who died so famously._

 _You see_ I’m _the sort of man who sees things like that, and starts putting things together. I’m the sort who notices that two men from a seemingly secret organization—”_

Here the freeze frame changed to show a candid photo of the SUV, Torchwood engraved on the side, and then switched to another candid photo, this time of Jack looking like he’s been run ragged, standing next to the ruins of the Hub. Ianto hadn’t seen Jack look so broken since Grey.

 _“— happen to be walking around. You’ve certainly been able to hide better than this one, true, but we’ve already figured that much out. You see; I have been looking into this… Torchwood, and because I notice things, I see that every time there’s something a bit too strange or unreal, that SUV of yours pulls up, and nothing is heard of it again. The more fanciful might think you’re involved with aliens, it almost seems like you’re encouraging that thought, but I can see past that. I’m clever. But so are you… so lets see one last clip,_ the _last clip as it so happens, and then let’s get down to business.”_

The picture changed, and it _was_ much later, Ianto’s head was lolling and he’d look drunk if it weren’t for the manic energy in his eyes, unfocused as they were, and he watched, sick to his stomach at the reminder of how hungry he’d felt, how trapped he was, and watched through what he’d lived through. Watched as he laughed like a madman, as he didn’t show one bit of remorse as the thugs in the peripherals clutched at their throats, eyes bugging out, and collapsed.

He watched as the ropes around him turned mulchy and pliant, watched as apples appeared and invisible fingers pluck at his clothing, twirls his hair. There’s no sound of burbling brooks or creaking branches, there’s no rustle of leaves, no murmur of dozens of children’s voices speaking just out of key, just Ianto walking about with his hair and clothing moving as if from a strange wind, getting supplies, packing up his things, sticking his tongue out at the chair… It was out of a horror movie, his childish face uncaring as he stepped over dead bodies. As he checked their pockets.

He listens to his own message after video!Ianto notices the camera, and doesn’t like the look in his own eyes. Doesn’t like that his smile is so sharp when he grins and asks:

“Do _you_ believe in Faeries?”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Tosh frowned from her workstation, only now noticing a pattern in police reports.

She frowns because it’s an obvious one when you know what to look for, though it’d been jumbled and misfiled—she could practically hear the grumbles of each officer as they filled out the forms.

“Gwen, Owen, come over here and look at this.”

Owen looked at the reports she’d compiled, and shrugged.

“Kids playing a joke, it’d be the best time to do it, everyone being _sensitive_ about _trauma_ and all that rot…”

“What’s so strange Tosh?” Gwen squinted and tilted her head, trying to see the connection.

Tosh pulled up the casualty sheet from the Thames house, and matched up the reported kids names and ages.

“Bloody hell…”

There were about 30 reports from the police, and each matched up with one of the people who died by the Alien’s gasses in Thames House.

Tosh took a moment to pull up the documented childhood photos of the people who died, and matched them up with the surly looking children in the photographs supplied by the police.

“So all these children who came saying they’d been turned into children…”

“Might actually be the adults who were exposed to the 456’s gas.” Tosh finishes.

“For fuck’s sakes, there were more than 50 casualties!”

“That means there are more than 50 adults out there turned into children… but wait, that means…”

Gwen turned wide eyes back to the list, eyes landing on one name in particular.

Tosh nodded, and Owen swore.

“Ianto.”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

_“I do. Or, I’m interested in what you’re considering Faeries.”_

The screen had changed to a videoconference looking set up with the Boss Man sitting calmly looking at Ianto.

_“I’m very interested in this, as well as anything else Torchwood has developed… particularly, this ability of yours to not die. Or at least not die for long. It does seem like it has it’s draw backs, that… intense hunger of yours, but the fact remains that you cannot die. I had found some clues that hinted towards someone in Torchwood being immortal, but I had pegged it as the American who seems to favor civil war era clothing…_

_Though who’s to say it isn’t the both of you? Really, what I’m interested in right now is what gas that was in Thames house, and if that’s the ‘faeries’ you’re talking about. Or something else? Some other sort of weapon? I’m not convinced that aliens exist but, fair point, it is a possibility. However, alien or not, that gas is… extremely interesting to me. I’ve been doing a bit of research after you left our care, and I found out something very interesting. I’m sure you already know, in fact, I’m almost entirely certain you were the one who started development of it… but the interesting thing is that the hundred or so people who died in Thames house, ah, along side you and your partner, it seems that now there’s an abundance of children wandering about claiming to be someone who was trapped in Thames house when it was gassed.”_

Ianto felt a cold chill crawl up his spine, and his mind raced. There were others like him? That was both horrifying and comforting, and he didn’t want to think about what would be happening with over a hundred maybe-immortal people running about.

Boss Man leaned forward, mouth quirking up into a small smile.

 _“I am_ very _interested in this. Especially after meeting_ you _, Ianto Jones. I have to say, it is fascinating to have an 8 or 9 year old walk and talk like they’re more than 5 times their age, but what puzzles me is that they, unlike you…_ don’t _get back up after getting shot in the head.”_

Ianto’s stomach suddenly tried to rebel, bile rising to the back of his throat and eyes watering. He couldn’t hold the bags of jerky and dried apricots, and the bags hit the scuffed wood flooring, and he brought shaking hands to his face.

He felt overly hot and shivering cold all at once, just staring at the interested, considering look in Boss Man’s eyes, and had to shut his own as another wave of nausea hit.

 _“So what is different about you and your partner, Mister Jones? What did you do differently?”_ He tilted his head, considering, and smiled.

_“We should talk, sometime. Differently than last time, I think, as you’re very good to keep from saying anything even after being shot constantly for a week. But we’re both adults, at least mentally, and I’m sure we can come to some sort of… agreement._

If not, well, I’m sure the public would be very interested in the footage from our week together… I wonder what they would do to you, hmm?”

Boss Man sat back, posture relaxed, confidence just about oozing from his pores, and smirked.

_“Take your time, think about what I’ve said and… Well. Keep in touch Mister Jones.”_

The screen went blank, and, Ianto forced himself to calm down, bend down and place his head between his knees, and breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

When he was no longer gasping, he forced himself to open a new document, and put down all that he’d learned, everything he needed to do, and made sure Mainframe was looking for any and all copies of Ianto being killed over and over again, but told her not to delete them yet.

He had the beginnings of a plan, but before that, he had work to do.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think about this reveal, hmm?  
> Well, not really a reveal, I kind of already said it in chapter 1…  
> Anyone less confused?  
> And should I be including a sort of trigger warning for this chapter as well?


	6. Wake Up by AWOLNATION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My master document is at a flat 60k... makes me happy :)

Hank McMasters sighed when another e-mail came in, quite possibly someone coming to him to again recheck their numbers, making him feel even more paranoid. He was good at math, at calculations, and it was because of this that he could… well.

He needed a break from work, but with his brother, and his children… well, he was tight on money. He hadn’t had a vacation since he started three years ago, and even with the extra… well.

Well.

He needed to stop thinking of it.

Marsha had commented on his jumpiness just the other day, but he couldn’t stop the twitchiness. He only _just_ kept from flinching when budgets and paychecks came up in conversation.

He just needed to… relax.

Yeah, he took a deep breath; he just needed to relax.

In.

Out.

Repeat.

Phew, relaxing.

Really, it was, and he’d continue doing it like this if he didn’t feel like he was imitating a pregnant woman before birthing and—

He really wasn’t cut out for this secretive stuff.

The next deep breath he took got caught in his throat when he read the subject line of the e-mail, and he waved away Stacy when she peered into his cubicle without looking away from his screen.

 **I know** is what it read.

_I know?_

_Who_ knows? Knows _what_? It couldn’t be what he was thinking of, because he wouldn’t be getting a cute little e-mail about it, _no_ , he’d be getting brought in for questioning, kicking and screaming like they never show you on the news, so _who_ knows _what_?

There was no feeling in his arms when he opened the e-mail, and he nearly swallowed his tongue because _oh fuck_.

_They know._

_Shit._

Shitshitshitshitshit.

He continues reading (because _yes_ he can multitask while having an internal breakdown), and gets all the way down to the innocuously signed _Jones_ at the bottom (which, c’mon, is the most obvious fake name next to _Smith_ ) before deciding he must not be able to multitask after all.

He _definitely_ read that wrong.

Because there was no blackmail in the message, there was no mention of words like “court case” or “Lawyer” or “You’ll never work ever again, _anywhere_ ” or any of the staples of being found out as an embezzler.

(Well, he _assumed_ they were staples…)

No, instead he seemed to have read a very politely worded message that boiled down to “Hello, I know what you’re doing and why, and if you would please stop embezzling, that would be grand. Also I’m going to be forwarding way too much money into your account so you no longer feel the need. Ta for now, Jones.”

_Jones._

He has to read it again three more times, and he goes online to check his account and sees that yep, there’s that ridiculous amount of money Jones promised, and _holy shit this was actually happening._

He reread the message again, and tried to see past the ridiculously polite phrasing, but can’t see a thing more.

Well, no—that’s a lie.

He can see the underlying messages; feel them like a slap to the back of his wrists.

_You were getting sloppy._

_It was obvious._

_Tsk, tsk, tsk…_

Hank took in a deep breath and held it until he was dizzy.

Held it until he was dizzy from something _other_ than shock.

He checks the return address, and feels his face slacken, and he has to check his bank account again to make sure he hadn’t hallucinated some horrific joke.

jones@jones.co.uk

_Seriously?_

He immediately sends a reply, and then rethinks things and sends another, and another, each more incredulous than the last, more and more questions piling up in his mind leading back to the one.

 _Who the hell_ is _Jones?_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto sighs when he’s leaving the shop, the bundle of proper blankets in his arms crinkling in its protective garbage bag.

The apartment— The Apartment? The Hovel? The Lair? Lair was a bit evil, he thought… He was lagging in naming lately… —had most of the basics in terms of things he’d need in case he was there longer than he planned (which, honestly, had involved him being back with Gwen and Jack more than a week ago), but it was getting colder.

He’d cleaned out one of the rooms more, one of the larger ones, and managed to awkwardly move furniture around so that now he had an actual bedroom, away from the computer monitors, and now that room needed to be less empty.

It was depressingly barren, and the somewhat suspect mattress was not in the least bit comfortable.

Next after he dropped these off he was going to find his way to getting one of those foamy sleep-comfort things, and along with them a set of sheets that didn’t smell like pot and mothballs.

He wasn’t looking forward to it.

He had a lot of shopping to do, and that meant dealing with people.

He tossed the tied-off bag up ahead of him, thinking that while it was great that he was no longer an 8 year old for while he was doing this, being in this particular stage of teenager-hood did nothing for him.

Absolutely nothing.

He wasn’t in the late stages of teenager, the stage that had people thinking either “you’re a criminal, best to stay away,” or else “A-Levels, huh? No time for lollygagging,” no.

No, instead he was in the teenager stage where everything he does is looked at sideways, where concerned nannies ask him why he’s getting groceries (and that’s another thing, don’t teens help their parents get groceries anymore? At _all_? Do their parents also not make them do chores?), and it has store clerks following him about to make sure he wasn’t nicking anything while inquiring if he didn’t have his mum around, and has employees at the cash register looking at him funny when he pays for anything.

(Ianto doesn’t remember specifically if he had a bankcard when he was 15, but he’s more than sure that most kids have one at 12 _now_ )

He can just imagine how it’s going to work out getting sheets and a mattress cover, though he can at least feel some confidence for when he goes to get more wiring and extension chords.

Because household chores? Decorating? No, those aren’t things a kid his age should be dealing with, but wires and electrical stuff? Computers and all those other gadgets?

Well, at this age you look strange if you don’t have headphones on.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto buys a pair before he goes clothes shopping.

The unused plug tucked into his pocket, the buds securely in his ears, Ianto’s not bothered by anyone when he buys clothing in a variety of sizes. The girl at the cash hardly glances at him when he pays for it all without a wince at the price, and Ianto decides that his Bored, Unapproachable Teenager face would need practice.

He obviously wasn’t very good at it if he needed props.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Eunice Bakely scowls after her supervisor, and shares a look with Gene.

Even wearing a turtleneck didn’t keep Jackson from eyeing her bust, and she once again considers bringing him up on charges of sexual harassment.

And, once again, she ends up grimly getting back to work.

If she brought up charges, things in the workplace would be looked into, there would be more attention to what’s been going on, and she couldn’t afford to have a couple of weeks—hell, a couple of months!— without her ‘extra work’ helping to pay off her Idiot Father’s debts.

She couldn’t let the interest grow again, and as it was she was working overtime to make sure her mum was properly looked after.

She heard booming laughter from down the hall, Jackson wasting more time at the coffee machine, flirting with the interns, and she scowled at her screen before fixing some figures.

 _If only, if only_ , she thought to herself.

If if’s and but’s were candy and nuts, we’d all have a Happy Christmas… and if those could be exchanged for cash, she wouldn’t be tempting a worse criminal charge than _anyone_ might’ve expected from her.

 _Oh, there’s Eunice Bakely, her Mum’s always baked and_ sloshed _, her Da’s got lots of money_ lost _, wouldn’t be surprised to find her working the_ streets _, wouldn’t be surprised to see tucking_ sheets _. She’s definitely going to Juvie at some point._

Going to _Jail_.

It’s where she would be going if she _was_ caught out.

And here she was, daughter of failures, daughter of people who made horrible decisions.

If only her Da didn’t have a gambling problem—If only any of his bets bore fruit.

If only her Mum didn’t have a drinking problem—If only she _only_ had a drinking problem.

Then, maybe, she wouldn’t be paying off her Da’s debts; perhaps she wouldn’t be paying for her 50 year old Mum to be in a home… Maybe she wouldn’t have to deal with pitying looks, because her Mum didn’t know what to do with the sense she hadn’t already drowned in liquor.

_If only, if only…_

Eunice, who she was certain was christened with such an old-lady name in the vain hope she’d live past her 60’s, who’d had her math skills mocked, was probably the only one from her home town who had a steady, above-minimum-wage paying job.

Of all the people who mocked that the only reason she could do advanced calculations in her head was to keep track of how in-debt their family was, who needed to know how to do them in her head because she couldn’t afford a calculator unless she dipped into her Mum’s booze budget, she was probably the most successful as of right then.

She was horrible with Lit, she had an attitude problem at the best of times, and she was probably going to go to jail once someone was bright enough to figure things out.

 _Not likely_ , she thought, thinking of Macey, who couldn’t get her head around the fact that 8x3 wasn’t 26, and so had to have all her calculations checked… but was such a sweetheart.

 _Not bloody well likely_ , she thought, when Jackson let his knuckles brush her arse on his way past her getting more photocopy paper from storage.

But it was bloody happening, because she was about to have a fucking heart attack when a quick check of her e-mail had a message from an unknown sender, titled **I know**.

For fuck’s sake…

Because while she worked directly with a mix of idiots with calculators and airheads just trying to do their very best (sometimes _without_ calculators), why she thought that the actual brains behind the company wouldn’t notice the steady drip from funding, she…

Well.

She was only hoping.

~~(She thought she knew better than to do something stupid like that…)~~

No.

She has a moment before opening the message where she wants to ignore it, start flinging paperwork about and screaming her head off, maybe tip over filing cabinets and just _break things_ (because you can go fuck yourself if you think she’s going down without causing a riot), but she reins in the crazy for until after she’s read, because _fuck_ , it’s a slim chance but it might just be Danny from floor 3 bitching about her stealing his soup for the last week.

(That was fantastic soup, and she’s not sorry in the least, so he can suck it)

She reads through the message, and then gets up to make herself some tea, because dammit, she thought she _reigned in_ the crazy.

Obviously she’d already gone bonkers, maybe tried to tip over the shelving unit, and it tipped onto her, and now her head’s cracked.

Her head’s cracked, and she’s just thinking up some situation where she read the damn e-mail instead, and doctors are probably poking at her body to get her ready for the court case she won’t be able to afford.

She stares at the electric kettle as it boils, and takes the entire thing back to her desk, because if she was imagining things, she was going to do it with a steady stream of pomegranate green tea at the ready.

She rereads the e-mail, marks it as unread for later, and gets back to work.

There is a very mild chance that this isn’t her going crazy, being crazy, being in a coma… a _very_ mild chance, and she’s stupid to hope, but at worst she’s just imagined herself getting a shitload of work done, and there’s worse things that could happen.

She’s the last one on her floor at the end of the day, as usual, and she brings up the message again, snorting at the e-mailing address, and thinks.

She thinks, and thinks, and eventually thinks to call up Johnny, a nice bloke who is her usual go-between in regards to her Da’s debts, and makes pleasant conversation with him after he congratulates her on finding a way to pay everything off.

“I still don’t know how you got the money together, but it’s fantastic! You keep in touch, yea?”

She makes vague noises of agreement, and listens to the dial tone after Johnny hangs up.

She rereads the e-mail, and closes her eyes for a moment.

Then, starts to reply.

_Dear Fairy Godmother,_

_Thank you, if this is for real… If this is some sort of joke, know that I’m going to kill you when I find you, and know it won’t be pretty or quick…_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

For a very long time, Ianto debates experimenting.

Weighs the pros and cons as he makes himself dinner, calculates the gains against the leap of fear in his throat, knows his answer even in the face of practicality…

Because even if he wouldn’t be dead for long (though there’s nothing saying that the next time he slips won’t be permanent), he refuses to kill himself.

It’s something he’d made a sort-of promise to himself when he was about 17, and even though circumstances have changed, suicide is not something he’ll do.

Not even to figure out the ins and outs of his new sort-of maybe immortality.

(He kept thinking, repeating in his head “ _that they, unlike you…_ don’t _get back up after getting shot in the head.”_ Because they don’t get back up, _they don’t get back up_ , and what if next time you don’t get back up?)

He was an archivist, and he liked having answers to sort into neat files, to have them accessible and organized.

But, if he didn’t have information, he didn’t decide to risk burning up the entire file to get it.

That was more than just inefficient.

That was _wasteful_.

So he didn’t know if his clothes always regenerated to what he was thinking about, he didn’t know if any particular sort of mindset affected his age-change, he didn’t know what would happen if he died while connected to the Mini-Hub, he didn’t know…

Well, he didn’t know a lot of things, but he’d be able to figure out more if he knew _how_ he got into this situation to begin with.

Jack had explained, somewhat, what situation had come about that made him immortal, and Ianto figured it might be something similar. Maybe.

Jack was so full of time energy from Rose Tyler (Ianto had a file on her, one part from Torchwood One, and the other entirely Torchwood Three), so full of _life_ , that he couldn’t stay dead.

At some point, once all the energy had been used up (because no energy was limitless, it would end at some point in time), Jack would die. Before that he’d probably start aging as there was less energy being put to making him youthful, and though the thought of Jack dying was a painful one, it also brought some comfort.

Jack wouldn’t have to deal with this forever.

It was a relief.

It was a thought that brought him some consolation, because he didn’t want to live forever himself.

But Ianto didn’t know what was making him (possibly) immortal.

It wasn’t the gas, though he thought that perhaps that was what had made him a child in the first place (and the more he thought about it, the 456 having a gas that turned it’s victims into children of the right age made a horrifying amount of sense), but it certainly wasn’t an overabundance of Time Energy keeping him alive either.

There was a large possibility that it had something to do with the Faeries (he’d seen them twice within the past month, and there weren’t coincidences when you worked for Torchwood), and there was an equally large possibility that it had something to do with the Rift.

A much larger possibility, if one included the chance that it had to do with something the Rift brought _to_ Cardiff, something Ianto had interacted with at some point.

He’d touched just about every piece of alien tech that’s passed through Torchwood Three while organizing the Archives, and has put away plenty more at One.

There were just too many variables.

Ianto shakes his head and reminds himself that he had other problems to deal with as well.

He had to get in touch with Jack (the media wasn’t any help whatsoever, which made no sense in this case) or Gwen (if he could risk being shot), he needed to figure out how he was going to respond to Boss Man, how he was going to get all copies of the recording, how he was going to do all this without being caught again, and he would eventually, after all this was done, deal with the public.

He didn’t like the thought of Rhi thinking him dead… but.

Though, if the others from Thames House were reacting the way he figured they would, someone would notice that there was something amiss eventually.

So many children unaccounted for and claiming to have been in Thames house when it was gassed wouldn’t go unnoticed.

When childhood photos were compared, Ianto was sure people would start paying attention.

Actually…

If Ianto waited until everyone was searching out the people who were gassed, he could slip in and get in contact with Jack and Gwen, because they’d be looking for him—

Ianto wasn’t an 8-10 year old.

He’d have to die again (and again and again and again possibly) to get back to that age, otherwise…

He certainly looked more like himself at this age, but neither Jack nor Gwen would trust him, would trust what would look so much like a trap.

He could just imagine it, hanging about the Hub until he saw either of them, and trying to explain that yes, he was Ianto Jones, he was just affected by the gas differently, because he was killed repeatedly and each time came back at a different age, yes, he was serious, and no, please don’t shoot—

(and again and again and again and again…)

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

His super secret Lair was looking more and more like an incarnation of his Uni apartment, blankets always in reach by being draped everywhere, kitchen scrubbed to a near hospital-like sterilization, a mismatch of styles and grunge and retro and new all blending together into his own special brand of organized chaos.

His own brand, because everything had it’s obvious place, there wasn’t piles of things waiting to be folded and neatened, but the sheer amount of organization that had been put into the main floor Ianto was using was almost entirely hidden by the clutter of styles.

With a number of shawls and beach cover-ups he’d been able to get for cheap (he may have money now, but he wasn’t a big spender on principal) were nailed and tacked to the grungy walls, covering the bland cream and taupe walls with blues and greens and patterns with vibrant reds and oranges splashing through them.

He did reserve one wall for pin-ups of information, information on Jack, on Gwen, on Torchwood, on Boss Man, and it was steadily filling up with his neat handwriting as he figured things out.

He framed the wall with sticky notes with questions, and the entire wall probably looked like some sort of cultist shrine to anyone who wasn’t familiar with shorthand, but that was well enough, he supposed.

The Cat, who he’d taken to calling Jack due to its increasingly affectionate attitude, rubbed against his ankles.

He picked him up, noticing that the little guy was getting rather fat, and wondered if he wasn’t noticing the Cat eating his food.

He didn’t think it was possible, but he _had_ been distracted lately…

Cat Jack squirmed to be let down, and went off to hunt or lick himself until he was balding or whatever it was that cats did when they ran from a room like that, and Ianto decided not to take it as an act of a guilty party.

 _This_ time, at least.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Tyra Shaw was always moving, always busy, always on the right side of working herself to the bone, because there was always so much to do.

So much to make sure of, so much to hide, so much to fiddle with so that everything fits in a way that looks like it’s the way it should…

Even when it’s not.

There were just not enough hours in a day.

From anyone else, you might think them sick, and while Tyra knew she was a bit of a workaholic (and ‘a bit’ wasn’t admitting even half), she knew how to get things done.

She was a model of efficiency, quick and to the point, blunt and sharp and deadly, she thought, and most would probably agree.

Many more would add on that she was a frigid bitch, but if they knew why she was always working so hard, they might bite their tongues.

Maybe.

She didn’t dwell on it.

No, she didn’t dwell on anything, except the work.

The work was important, because it kept others at a distance; it kept money in her pocket; it kept money in her Great Aunt’s health care; it kept how she was _paying_ for these expensive treatments secret…

It kept things working.

No one wanted to linger over her work, lest they see exactly how much she’s done, because that would mean that they would have to see proof that they do _maybe_ a quarter of the work she’s done in a day during their entire week (and that was being generous).

She knew this, knew that even the people who headed the company didn’t want to linger and know she could do all their jobs and still have time to build a rocket in her spare time.

Well, _if_ she had the time.

So, when she gets the chime from her phone alerting her to a new message, and the header is ‘ **I know** ’…

She doesn’t panic.

When she reads through the message, she does panic, because whoever is going by _Jones_ knows too much.

Knows what would make her entire life so much easier, knows how to make it look like she didn’t have to worry any longer, so, for the first time since she started working here, she called in a family emergency, and left.

She got more than a couple of strange looks when she left, but she pays them no mind.

She gets in her car and makes the drive to her Aunt’s hospital, and when she gets there she explains to her that an unknown has decided to fix all their problems, and no, Tyra didn’t seek him out.

She checks with the hospital, and they confirm that things had already been paid for, and she checks her account on her way home, her Aunt giving her reassurances that this must be an Act of God…

She loves her Aunt, but while she’d learned many skills from the woman, she never gained the blind faith she had.

She could never let things be unquestioned.

So she sends a message in reply.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto frowns at the screen.

He was glad that the Archives had been dug out enough to have systems back up, but somehow Tosh and Owen’s statuses had been reset to ‘active’.

He debated a moment using his own still-active codes to change things back, but…

He couldn’t handle the thought of Tosh’s video coming up again.

It was tied into the code of her id, a land mine that you couldn’t keep from setting off, and he couldn’t _only_ deactivate Owen’s…

As much as he’d like to think that only Owen’s account being deactivated would prompt Jack and Gwen to think to look for him, it was infinitely more likely that they would think it someone hacking into their servers, firewalls depleted as they were without Tosh to make them impossible to get past.

As good as Ianto was with programming, as much as Jack knew, they didn’t have the skill Tosh had.

UNIT, too, was something to think about.

He knew that they were assisting in the reconstruction of Torchwood, and even with the progress of nearly 6 months of work, there was still so much to do, and he couldn’t jeopardize the teetering partnership by casting UNIT into question.

As it was, it seemed like there was a bit of a kerfuffle earlier in the month, UNIT apparently having done _something_ Jack and Gwen objected to…

It was obvious it was something extreme enough for it to be mentioned, but when Mainframe hacked into UNIT’s research database (nowhere near as extensive as Torchwoods, but that’s what you got when your organization focused on weapons and defense) there was no information on what they had been doing. There wasn’t even the haziest of traces as to what information they’d hoped to get, and Ianto could see Jack’s hand in this.

He must’ve used his Vortex Manipulator to get such a clean sweep.

He did find quite a bit of information that Torchwood had been sitting on in UNIT’s database, and he unobtrusively took all the potentially dangerous information (especially anything that Jack had mentioned Earth wasn’t ready for), and put it in an innocuously named file back in Torchwood’s database.

 ** _RETRIEVED FROM UNIT_** wasn’t too obvious, right?

He also copied the harmless information and put it in another file in the folder, **_WHAT THEY STILL HAVE_** , and hoped that what he’d left wouldn’t hurt.

He also looked into if anyone at Torchwood (there was a possibility that Jack had hired on more people, and there might not have been enough time to get them in the system) had noticed the Thames House children.

He was relieved to see they had.

He’d used the CCTV and just about all of Mainframes recourses to find out where the… _others_ were. There were police reports, there were write-ups in hospitals, there were complaints at orphanages, and Ianto could place more than 3/4ths of the people who’d died— _been gassed_ at Thames House

He made it so that the information would be sent to Torchwood in a bundle…

He would love to just send out a message saying “Hey! Here I am!” especially since they were already looking into the adult-turn-children, but…

Again, he wasn’t a child anymore.

They would be looking for a child, if he showed up now there would be too much suspicion…

And, even if the idea of showing up and enduring the suspicion, there was Boss Man to consider.

He had tapes that showed that he couldn’t die, and if he let any of the footage leak, Torchwood would be under significantly more scrutiny (something very much so not needed right when they were regaining their footing). If he went to Torchwood, he wasn’t so sure that Boss Man would take that kindly, and Ianto hadn’t been able to find out exactly how far Boss Man’s power ran, so the sooner he could deal with him, the sooner he could get back to Jack and Gwen.

He didn’t believe that Boss Man would actually send the video out to the public, because that would shed more light on his own actions than Boss Man is likely comfortable with, as well as taking his main advantage against Ianto away…

(Well, if you didn’t include his whole gang.)

So the best bet for him right then was to stay under the radar, stall Boss Man until Ianto could figure out how to get the hard copies he undoubtedly had (Mainframe could deal with anything digital), still help the rest of Torchwood stay afloat, figure out what was happening with Jack (because honestly, there was no activity from him. No trace of him at all in the past months), he had to work on figuring out what, exactly, had happened with _him_ (please don’t be _actual_ immortality, _please_ don’t let him be immortal…), he needed to assist any way he could with the Thames House ‘children’, all while figuring out how to convince Jack and Gwen that he wasn’t some sort of imposter…

He could, conceivably, send them the video Boss Man had sent him, but Ianto knew as well as Jack did how easy it was to doctor a video, and even with all that Ianto had said while being shot… well, anyone who wanted to know more about an organization to plant a spy had to be willing to expose even a little about how much they knew.

And Ianto certainly hadn’t been forthcoming about his past before…

Falling on Rhiannon to confirm facts wouldn’t mean anything, as she didn’t have any training to keep personal facts from being read from her mind.

(He could kill himself until he was a child, but again, he was entirely unwilling to go that route)

So he was suck with making up a list of priorities, staying under the radar at the top of the list, and trying to do his best not to screw things up.

He also had to figure out how Steven had been brought back, as he had definitely _not_ been gassed…

He wondered how Jack was doing with that, and if Alice had gotten in touch.

He wondered at that, too, because if she did get in contact, she must’ve mentioned Ianto.

He frowned.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Tosh frowned at the new information that had appeared in the database since last night, information she hadn’t managed to get ahold of about the Thames Children neatly put together.

There was enough information there that they could go through the right channels to get everything set up to be believable…

They certainly wouldn’t be able to hide something like this, but to go to the Queen and accompanying governments claiming that the people who ‘died’ in Thames House had simply been turned into children…

Well.

With this information all put together, it would be significantly easier.

It certainly wasn’t helpful, she thought rather uncharitably, that there were still adult bodies left behind. They’d been able to pull Ianto’s body from the Morgue, just to check, and it wasn’t hard to have a couple of the other bodies checked on.

(even the buried ones)

But the information was… questionable.

Not in that they could be put in doubt, no, everything had at least three different sources it seemed, as well as accompanying pictures to compare with the victims childhood photos, but she did wonder where the information came from.

She reread through all the information twice more, and sent it on to Gwen and Owen to look through, because there was just _something_ …

She gave an accompanying note that she didn’t know where the information had come from, and during breaks between updating Torchwood’s software and boosting their firewalls, she looked over the information.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on what was familiar about the information, as it certainly wasn’t that she’d seen any of it before.

While they knew about maybe a third of what was in the file, they didn’t have most of the sources and proofs to back it up, and certainly nothing this thorough.

She wished she could put her finger on it, but whatever it was that niggled at her mind escaped her.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Hank had tried looking up Jones, and found pretty much what he’d expected.

There was so much information on their two celebrities from a couple of months ago, the late Ianto Jones and his bitch-slapping sister Rhiannon (and really, could you _get_ any more Welsh with those names?), and there was quite a bit of gay-rights support sites that popped up because of the association, but whoever Jones was he (or she, he supposed) had chosen their code name well.

There were thousands of people with that as a last name, and just as many companies and corporations and brands with the name, and any sort of clue in forums was clogged up with Ianto Jones and his sister, again.

It was frustrating, but at the same time, invigorating.

He felt like he was trying to find the secret identity of a superhero, one that slunk through the web, hacking company records and finding those who were doing wrong for good, and playing Robin Hood while having a laugh at the heart attacks he was giving.

He didn’t doubt for a second that Jones got a laugh sending these messages of his.

He tried looking up Jones’s who’d have the money to be able to do something like this, looking for the Bruce Wayne to Jones’s Batman, but a quick (and a bit slightly illegal) peek at their financial records showed that they hadn’t had any dips worth mentioning.

It was possible that they had separate accounts, but looking into their lives he found it highly unlikely.

Most of the Jones’s who had the money were more likely to be affronted at the gall of embezzlers to take cash from their peers’ pockets than be willing to help. Especially if it meant dipping into their own pockets.

Jones had said to stop embezzling, but it wasn’t in _that_ sort of tone.

It was more of a…

Well, he couldn’t help imagine some sort of Dumbledor-esque character looking on with sorrowful eyes and talking about how the risks he took _for_ his family were also _putting_ his family at risk.

Oh, that was good; he thought he should probably write that down…

That done, he continued looking, this time trying to think the way he thought Jones thought.

He got through several more forums that he thought might have mention of Jones, when it occurred to him that he couldn’t be the only one Jones had helped.

Robin Hood didn’t focus on only the one peasant—and there he was thinking of himself as a peasant, he was going back to the Batman analogies.

Batman helped all of Gotham, not just one neighborhood.

So he starts looking for discrepancies _he_ might have made, in other companies.

He has work to do in between his sleuthing, and family things beside, so it probably takes much longer than it would have if he’d focused all his time on it (or else, he’d like to think that), and he has a moment to think he could probably make a pretty penny pointing out embezzlers before he notices two instances where the number discrepancies are petering out.

He’s certain that his own company is probably showing the same, a strange little surge of income, but it’s enough that he starts looking into things.

Again, he’d like to think it would take less time if he didn’t have family and work and general human maintenance to take care of, but it means that it’s more than a month and a half after he started looking into companies discrepancies before he has his names.

It’s only the two, but it’s enough that he can send a message out, as carefully worded as he can (no need to be giving out heart-attacks himself), to see if the mysterious _Jones_ had contacted them as well.

Jones hadn’t responded to any of his returning e-mails, but he kind of hadn’t expected him to. He probably got thousands of them daily, anyway.

Hank would just have to find out about Jones himself.

(And if he gets an absurd amount of joy in feeling like Sherlock Holmes looking for his Moriarty, like Robin searching for his Batman, well that’s none of your business)

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Thugs make a reappearance late one night when Ianto’s heading out to the Co-Op to get AA and D batteries, and apparently the fact that Ianto’s (kind of) immortal has been shared, because the first bullet clips his shoulder, and the next explodes the back of his head.

He’d like to know how long it takes between deaths—or would it be more accurate to say between _bodies_? Lives?— but he’s jerking in the Thugs arms, elbow slamming into his jugular and heel clipping the other Thug’s temple, and then he was running.

Apparently the message he sent Boss Man wasn’t one he was accepting.

What a fucking surprise.

He was a bit shorter (damn it) so he played to his strengths, turning corners as much as he could, breaking the line of sight, and this time he doesn’t make the mistake of not keeping an eye on the cars and vans in the area.

He turns left when he otherwise would have gone right when he sees a dark van ahead of him, and hears the curses behind him.

He’s not going back to his Lair, his Flat (HA!) and he’s got a dozen places he could go to lose them except that more than half would be closed at this time of night, and another quarter wouldn’t be crowded enough to go through.

The last are inconvenient, but doable.

He’s about to sprint across the street to go around another corner when he sees the alley he’s just getting to has a fire escape, garbage bin just beyond, and he has half a moment to make his decision.

Half a moment to make his decision, and in the next he’s making a running leap at the raised ladder to the fire escape.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The relationship between UNIT and Torchwood gets tense and more than a little fearful after Tosh’s temper tantrum. Especially when a very pregnant Gwen verbally crushes three Colonels and one of the head Commanding Officers when they try to get some sort of reparation and apology for Tosh deleting months of research and threatening their institution.

Owen was lucky enough to have been working near where the call had been made, and so had the entirety of UNIT’s smack down committed to memory for later amusement.

Rhys would probably get a laugh out of it, too.

For all that Rhys couldn’t handle all of Owen’s snark, he was a pretty alright bloke.

(As ‘alright’ as a Civvie could be, anyway)

But the confrontation was more of a help, in the end.

Due to the vicious attitudes the rest of Torchwood were aiming at UNIT, things were getting done much quicker.

Because of the fear of Tosh and Gwen, UNIT wasn’t even trying to get their alien tech, and this sped things up significantly as well…

This was all a funny thing to Owen, as he wasn’t regarded as the one with the sharpest tongue right then what with Gwen being hormonal, and he could only scare the Interns away with the possibility of alien disease he keeps handy, but with Tosh showing that she could erase everyone in UNIT from even existing in the government…

Well, an alien disease that split your tongue and made your fingernails fall off wasn’t too bad, was it?

But it also helped the general morale of the three Torchwood survivors.

Gwen had a target to let off steam, which helped her keep her temper around the rest of the team and Rhys, and allowed her to get through the paperwork as needed.

Tosh became the boogeyman of Cardiff to everyone in UNIT, including ( ~~especially~~ ) the ones in charge, and so any fear of them trying to take her back into solitary confinement; any residual fear of them _at all_ was squashed by their not so masked apprehension at seeing her near anything electronic.

Owen was more relaxed at having a target of his own, and most of his anger was washed away with his amusement at UNIT walking on tippy toes around Tosh and Gwen.

You’ve never seen something as hilarious as a man in fatigues, a bulletproof vest, and with a rifle across his back creeping around a pregnant woman.

As it was, UNIT was still trying to pry into how Owen and Tosh had come back to life so long after their deaths, but fear of Gwen, Tosh, and the belief that Owen was the harbinger of trouble (the result of somehow always being there when shit was going down), kept UNIT acting the way Torchwood had originally expected them to act.

Had them doing what they said they were there to do.

The Hub was being rebuilt, Weevils were being dealt with, things that came through the rift were being collected (for _Torchwood_ ), and the two aliens who were caught up in the Rift were being treated like the lost tourists they were, rather than like the terrorists they could be if they were agitated.

Things weren’t perfect. There were still quiet moments where no one could forget what had been lost; there were still reminders of Jack and Ianto about, as well as reminders of the 456, and you couldn’t avoid the fact that any one of them could be lost again.

There were still questions to be answered, like what had brought Tosh and Owen back, what happened to Jack, and how could they get in contact with him, as well as the possibility of Ianto being alive along with everyone else from the Thames House gassing.

But they were Torchwood. They would be there in the nick of time; they’d find the solution before it’s too late; the show would go on, all that rot.

And if they needed to terrorize UNIT troops to get through it…

Well, everyone needs a hobby.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The Thugs run around the alleyway, and pause only a moment to take in the scene before swearing.

One has his phone out in seconds; the other starts climbing the fire escape, cussing when his foot slipped on eth wet metal.

“The guy’s gone up the roof… yeah, we’re up by Third and Dunlowe, circle around, Darwin’s following him—yeah, yeah, I’m goin’, I’m goin’…”

The voice faded to a murmur, and after a moment there was an exclamation of noise from the roof.

A shower of gravel fell, clanging against the metal lid of the dumpster, and a little while later the second Thug is stomping down the emergency exit.

“Yeah, he’s gone, we’re still looking for him… yeah… guy’s like a squirrel climbing like—yeah, yeah, I _know_ jeeze, we’re just going…”

The voice trailed off, as did the sound of footsteps.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Hank isn’t stupid, so he knows that his usage of a new e-mail ( _hm@jones.co.uk_ for a lark) isn’t enough to keep them off his trail.

He could see from their records they were smart, and thought that they must have some sort of familial obligation or other moral dilemma kind of thing that had them embezzling, but the @jones.co.uk would at least keep them from deleting or disregarding the e-mail. Using his initials was pushing it, but he figured that if any of them had an ounce of imagination they’d figure out that he’d originally chosen H-M to stand for Hench Man…

Because he’d been researching this Jones guy long enough that he could admit to himself that yeah, he kind of wanted to work for this guy. Even if it was pointing out Embezzlers, or just making it easier to transfer funds (things Jones seems to have no problem with, but hey, he could hope to be part of Robin Hood’s band of merry men), this guy was good.

He could see hints of what could be his work in charities and various neighborhoods being rebuilt to respectability, he was a modern day freedom fighter.

No, more like… he seemed to be fighting for people’s livelihoods.

Hank felt like he was a kid again and discovered Iron Man and Mr. Fantastic and Bruce Banner and freaking Hank McCoy and how they were superheroes in the classic sense…

But they were also superheroes in using their _minds_ , too.

It was fantastic!

Jones had all this money, and he’s using it and his smarts to help people in a financial bind.

So yeah, he wouldn’t mind being a henchman.

He also didn’t mind so much if these other two found out who he was… because what were they going to do? Finger him as an embezzler?

He could easily return the favor, and he wouldn’t even mind going to jail…

Well, he would, but he didn’t think Jones would stop helping his family.

(Hell, he might even pay bail, but Hank didn’t think it was terribly likely he’d go that far. Good to hope, though)

So he doesn’t expect a response immediately from either of them, but the @jones at least has them thinking.

He’d read through the message enough times before sending it to make sure it didn’t sound like blackmail, but was also trying to make sure it didn’t sound like he was fishing for a guilty target.

So he waited, and continued his search, and got together everything he knew in a hard copy.

None of it had proof or any sort of leader towards him or anyone else stealing money, but he had a suspicion that Jones had a way of finding and deleting anything kept digitally…

He _so_ couldn’t wait to get in contact with the guy.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto waits for a half hour.

In that half hour, he decides that in this particular instance the children’s cartoons are significantly more accurate than any movie.

Still, he waited the full half hour, counting the seconds to distract himself from… _this_ , and contents himself with the fact that he’s apparently built up enough of an MO with these guys that they’d automatically assumed he’d gone up the fire escape and managed to disappear.

Because while it was severely inconvenient being hunted down, he couldn’t say it wasn’t flattering that the Thugs assumed he was an urban Houdini and didn’t even think to check the dumpster or any farther down the alleyway for him.

Still, though he was lucky to land on what seemed to be someone’s old carpeting, landing in rubbish was not comfortable, it wasn’t glamorous, and he’d been afraid that he’d gag and give away his position.

If that had happened, he’d probably be more pissed about the fact that he jumped into a dumpster for naught than for anything else.

 _Gods_ , all he could smell was dumpster juice…

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He showers immediately, and changes into thick flannel pajamas to curl up on the couch.

After his day, he deserved a bit of a mope, and it wasn’t like there was anyone around to see it, so…

Ianto sighed.

He was feeling a little stir crazy… He went out almost every day, and ended up interacting with people regularly, and this was along with connecting with Mainframe via his Mini Hub daily, but he missed having… his _own_ people.

It was childish to think that (and _oh_ did he hate the thought of being childish now that he’d had to act it for so long), but he’d worked in Torchwood for a little over 6 years. You couldn’t do that without getting the divider in your brain of _Them_ and _Us_ , of _Civilians_ and _Torchwood_.

Torchwood was full of his people.

He wanted to be able to joke wit someone, he wanted to be able to talk to someone about the weirdness that was now his life (even more than before, even more than Torchwood standards), someone that wasn’t Mainframe.

Mainframe wasn’t people.

He piled on the blankets over himself hugging a pillow to his chest and squeezed himself as tightly as possible. Into as small a shape as possible.

He managed to delude himself momentarily into thinking that if he squished himself into a small enough space, maybe that would fill up the hollowness in his chest, the ache just below his ribs that was sort of like hunger, but more like a craving for human contact.

He wanted to cuddle with Jack, he wanted to have sex, he wanted things to go back to the way things were…

For more pointless wishes, he wished things could go back to _before,_ before, when Tosh and Owen were alive (entirely so), and he wanted to comfort Tosh, be comforted in return… he wanted to have a Matrix Marathon and eat gross amounts of ice cream and alcoholic hot chocolate. He wanted to go on runs in the morning without worrying about if he ould them have to run from a bunch of Thugs who fully embrace the idea of ‘Shoot First, Ask Questions Later’…

He heaved out a sigh and his stomach grumbled.

It wasn’t bad enough that he was starved for affection; he also had the feeding habits of a teenager again.

He got up from under his overly warm nest of blankets, and set about to making some simple comfort food.

Wieners and beans sounded perfect.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The next day Ianto stopped by a book store and got a new journal.

He was overly cautious and took an extra 20 minutes getting there than was needed, but he didn’t fancy meeting up with Thugs in daylight.

It had been late when he’d met them last night, but he didn’t delude himself into thinking they wouldn’t hold fire just because there were people around.

He took an extra half hour getting back to his… what was he going to call it then? Maybe just The Flat? Whatever, he took a half hour extra getting there on the off chance he was being followed, and once inside he sat down and wrote.

He wrote down everything he remembered from before the 456, of the reports of missing bodies and how it turned out to be a hoax (hoax, not Hoix, a Hoix would have been even worse, mouthy buggers), the plant, Gwen’s pregnancy, the bomb and how it was found out, running for his life, rescuing Jack… All of it, all the way to Thames House.

He used the second half of the page that was left to him to write in large, capital lettering  
 **DIED (??)**

**4-5 MONTHS**

**LATER**

Then he stopped for food and stretches (his joints were aching… he supposed it was because he was in his prime growth-spurt state, but he didn’t remember it actually feeling like much), and took some time to clean up the building some more before sitting down again.

He wrote everything he could remember, and used spare bits of paper and stick glue he’d picked up on a “maybe I’ll need it later” whim to add in things he remembered later.

He wanted to get it all written down, emotions and all, and by the end he felt marginally better.

Writing in his Diary was a normal thing. It was an old routine. A well-worn one. Comfortable.

He took another break from writing to do more stretches, more food, and went out to stand on the roof for a bit.

He enjoyed the wind in his face even when it turned biting, and looked to the taller buildings in the distance.

He’d never _fully_ understood Jack’s fascination with being up high, but he could understand this.

He took a deep breath of the chilling air, and for the moment, his mind was blank.

And that was enough.

For now.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Cat Jack was very close to being labeled ‘chubby’.

The only good thing to come of this was that he was also weirdly cuddlier, and as Ianto was feeling starved for touch, he indulged relentlessly.

He thought perhaps it was Jack eating the same amount but not working off as much, what with living with a human, or rather living with something that guards the territory on it’s own, or maybe the prey he was catching was getting fatter, because he’d checked his food stores.

Cat Jack wasn’t eating his food.

(At least not anything Ianto hadn’t given him)

Right then he could see how easy it was to become a crazy cat lady/man, and he could see why the archetype had the crazy persons being able to live like hermits in their own homes.

But Cat Jack has also been sleeping a lot more, the times he’s followed Ianto around outside becoming fewer and farther between, and Ianto was worried that maybe Cat Jack was sick.

Ianto had never had a pet before (not to say Cat Jack was a pet, but Ianto’d gotten used to the feline being around), and hadn’t ever had the idea that he would grow up to be a vet…

So he had Mainframe help him find out what was wrong.

Turns out that what he was experiencing was something common to a number of illnesses, so he thought that perhaps he should _start_ feeding Cat Jack.

Not having much of an idea of what to feed cats, but knowing that they were more carnivorous than even dogs were, next time he went to the store he looked into pet foods.

He made a face at the ingredients.

Corn meal and dried beet products seemed to be in every ingredients list, and he didn’t trust “by-products” included next to chicken and beef, so he sighed and picked up fish fillets and lean beef cuts, looking for less fatty meats as it would be closer to what Cat Jack would be getting on the streets… just a safer version. He had enough practice finding such things for Myfanwy (thank the gods he’d found the report about her being alive, and once again _please_ make sure _someone_ was feeding her properly), and kept away from chicken.

He had the thought that perhaps Cat Jack had eaten something plastic, or something heavily processed, and maybe that was slowing him down…

He almost made it to the counter when he remembered that cats ate bones as well, and that Cat Jack wouldn’t be getting… what was it the site had said?

Ah, right, cats needed good calcium: phosphorus ratio. Bones equaled calcium, and Meat equaled phosphorus.

Maybe Jack wasn’t getting enough calcium?

Supposedly it was a 2:1 ratio of calcium to phosphorus, and though there was a butcher within running distance, where he could get bones and blood, he could get the same effect through eggshells.

Significantly less messy, less suspicious looking during transport, and though Ianto wasn’t much of a fan of eggs… well, he could make cake or something.

(Call him biased, but he no longer saw any problem with eating filling, fattening foods)

Or he could check if eggs were good for cats… He assumed so, but he’d stumbled across a site that said that dogs were allergic to _grapes_ , so…

Anyway, Cat Jack would be eating well tonight.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Tyra starts her breathing exercises when she sees the e-mail.

Specifically, the address.

hm@jones.co.uk… is this jones guy serious?

She already had misgivings about trusting this… charity, and then _this_ comes up?

It was unacceptable.

It was ridiculous.

What kind of a message was this anyway?

She almost started to angrily reply, but stopped herself and pulled out her stress ball.

She would calm down and think on this. She wouldn’t do anything rash.

She squeezed the ball hard between her hands and pretended it was Jones.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto feels a bit ridiculous making a weird… nest, sort of thing for Cat Jack, but he could change blankets much easier than changing the cushions on the couch.

And cats liked boxes, right?

Right.

It didn’t take long to set up, and it took even less time to get Cat Jack settled into it.

Ianto sighed and looked around the flat, and wondered how he could get a vaccum cleaner in here.

The cat hair was getting everywhere.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 

 

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto is, a week later, trying to move Cat Jack to change blankets when he feels it.

“Oh…” He has Cat Jack partially lifted and knows that if he wasn’t behind Cat Jack right then, he’d probably be the recipient of a sleepy cat glare for the awkward position.

“Well at least I know you aren’t sick anymore…

Ianto replaces Cat Jack in the little box-made-nest, and carefully runs his hand over the cats distended belly, and noticed for the first time that Cat Jack had nipples.

 _Ah_ , he thought, belatedly.

_It’s a girl cat._

He allowed this to sink in for a moment, and looked over Cat Jack (Or, well, _Jackie_ now) with new eyes.

 _Ah_ , he thought again.

_It’s not fat._

_It’s_ pregnant _._

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : tyshaw@lolinc.co.uk, eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **From** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **Subject** : Do You Know the Muffin Man?

**Message:**

_Hello fellow deviants!_

_Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, I have just as much to lose (if not more) than you two. So I’m not here to blackmail or point fingers here. Nope. Not at all._

_You may be wondering why I’m contacting you, or perhaps wonder how I found you._

_Well, I found you through the mysterious figure called Jones. _

_I think it’s safe to assume that recently you’ve had the panic-inducing pleasure of a vague e-mail from a character calling himself Jones (jones@jones.co.uk sound familiar?), who also deposited a stupid amount of money towards your financial problem with the textual equivalent of a tap to the wrist._

_Before you get angry, Jones didn’t point me to you. I just looked for people who were doing the same thing I was, and who had stopped doing it._

_So I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am._

_I hope I’m not the only one with a healthy amount of curiosity, as I really want to know all I can on this Jones guy._

_So get back to me ASAP, or not, you know whatever if you’re fine with leaving a good mystery, but if you are know this:_

_This stranger is disappointed in you._

_Think on that._

_HM_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, anyone have a good name for the Apartment? Because for now it’s bouncing between a dozen cliché titles in my mind…  
> Also, my plan was originally for Ianto to come back to the Unnamed Apartment to kittens, but then I actually looked up cat pregnancy and was like “Oh… wait…”  
> http://catpregnancy.blogspot.ca/2007/08/stages-of-cat-pregnancy.html  
> Also, massive kudos to randompersonofdoom who, along with commenting the hell out of my story each chapter has also decided to make a podfic for the story.  
> There will be linkage happening when that’s done.  
> GAH I’M SO EXCITED!  
> Also, the song this chapter is titled for was suggested by her, and it fits this story so well, I just…  
> SO. MUCH. HAPPINESS.  
> Yeah, too much excitement.


	7. The End by Anima Sound System

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EACH CHAPTER IS (about)10K. Patience for the next chapter… or not.  
> AAAH! Randompersonofdoom has gotten the first chapter in podfic up already and it’s fantastic and it makes me so happy and AAAHHHHHHH!  
> So much happiness for this you have no idea. Should be linked up in the bottom (Works inspired by and all that jazz, but this is to Ao3-ers)…  
> Enjoy!

Chapter 7— The End by Anima Sound System

 

 **To** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **From** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: Do You Know The Muffin Man

**Message:**

_Is this some sort of joke?_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **From** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: Do You Know The Muffin Man                         

**Message:**

_NO! I’m serious! Don’t try denying it; it’s pretty obvious what you were doing… Well, after I started looking properly. So the only question is if you know of ‘Jones’ and if you want to know more._

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **From** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: I’m going to Shank you

**Message:**

_If this is some sort of joke… And what do you know about this guy anyway? He nearly gave me a heart attack! If you’re with him if I ever meet you I’m going to clock you one. I’ve killed for less._

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **From** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: Please Don’t

**Message:**

_Let’s just say I think he’s some sort of mix between Robin Hood and Batman… we aren’t the only ones he’s helped, though I do think this is new for him… the helping specific people thing. I found a number of anonymous donations and behind-the-scenes Jedi mind tricks happening: people suddenly changing their actions, a sudden boost in a failing company’s funds, that sort of thing._

_Also, good to know that Jones is entirely unbiased in whom he helps._

_Seriously though… for less????_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **From** : tyshaw@lolinc.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: Do You Know The Muffin Man

**Message:**

_Hello,_

_I’m unsure of what you hope to gain with such a preposterous message, but I assure you, you have the wrong person. I have no interest in your illicit affairs, and certainly no interest in joining you, so please do not try to contact me again._

_T. Shaw._

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **From** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: No guarantees

**Message:**

_How old are you? What’s with all the geek references?_

_And you also sent that bogus ‘hello fellow deviants’ message to one other, is that the other guy you found? Any word from him?_

_Also yes, for less._

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : tyshaw@lolinc.co.uk

 **From** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: You Totally Know The Muffin Man

**Message:**

ATTACHMENT(s): Your Kryptonite.doc

_Actually, you ARE the one I’m looking for; so don’t try to brush me off again! Seriously, I’m not the Lex Luthor to your Superman, you can trust me, and we need to find our Joker here! Well, he’s a bit more like Batman in my mind, but whatever._

_I know what you’ve done, YOU know what you’ve done, and lets not pretend like I’m speaking Klingon here, ok?_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **From** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: Seriously I Have To Be Able To Trust You Here

**Message:**

_Oh my god this woman tried to pretend like she didn’t know what I was talking about!_

_ Look at what she sent me! _

_Isn’t that crazy? At least you didn’t try pulling that sort of shit._

_And don’t try to deny that you’re loving the nerd-talk._

_Anyway, we should meet up to talk about this shit, yeah? I’ll bring what information I have and we can all talk about where to go from here… what do you think?_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **From** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: So have a little faith nerd

**Message:**

_You’re a little forward, aren’t you? But we should probably all be in one place if we want to make any progress in finding this Jones guy… and I DO want to find this guy, if only to give him a smack and a hug. Not necessarily in that order._

_And are you certain that you want this other girl coming if she thinks_ that _is being covert?_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **From** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: I Do Have Faith I’m In A Faithful Relationship Stop Questioning Me Woman

**Message:**

_I feel like I should tell you I’m happily married and have kids. Not to say meeting up with you in private wouldn’t be enjoyable, but I’m thinking enjoyable in a Friendship is Magic kind of way._

_And she should come, she’s had contact with Jones and we should be piling together **all** that we know of the guy, and as I have only been able to find two people who have been contacted directly from jones@jones.co.uk, this is what we’ve got. _

_Any idea where you want to meet?_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **From** : tyshaw@lolinc.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: You Totally Know The Muffin Man

**Message:**

_What? What’s a Kryponite?_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **From** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: I might still shank you wanker

**Message:**

_Honestly! I was asking because a guy like Jones seems like he would keep an ear out for people looking for him! For fuck’s sakes you cock._

_And how about we continue with that ridiculous theme you started with and go to the bakers on Fifth and Crawford, it’s called “Just Desserts”._

_Ha ha ha._

_It’s not quite on Drury Lane, but how’s that for you Mr. Muffin Man?_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **From** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: I Knew You Had A Sense Of Humor

**Message:**

_That’s brilliant! Especially since we’re getting together about stealing a lot of dough._

_How’s this Saturday sound? Tyra (the other Jones recipient) has a day off then and it looks like you do too. Is noon-ish good for you?_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **From** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: Who’s laughing?

**Message:**

_You know it’s creepy you know my schedule. Creepier that you hacked into it to book Saturday yourself. If you do that again I **will** shank you, kids or no kids. _

_Noon is good for me, as is Saturday._

_I’ll be in the back table by the window, orange handbag._

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **From** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: You Can Be The Joker To My Batman Any Day :D

**Message:**

_It’s cool, right? And I hacked your employee photo, so no need for the cloak and orange dagger :) I’ll pass that onto Tyra though._

_And is threatening bodily harm your way of showing affection? Because you know I’m serious when I say I’m in a relationship. Wedding vows and all that. Children, even._

_I’ll be in a Batman t-shirt ;)_

_See you Saturday then!_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : tyshaw@lolinc.co.uk

 **From** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: Don’t Play Dumb With Me Woman!

**Message:**

_Look, meet us at ‘Just Desserts’, here is a LINK to get there from your office, be there at noon this Saturday. _

_Seriously, be there._

_Be the curious George I know you can be!_

_Back table, one woman with an orange handbag and on man wearing a Batman T-shirt._

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **From** : tyshaw@lolinc.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: Do You Know The Muffin Man

**Message:**

_What? I’ll be there, but what?_

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

 **To** : hm@jones.co.uk

 **From** : eBake@ikrcorp.co.uk

 **Subject** : RE: You’re a cock

**Message:**

_See you Saturday, nerd._

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Hank linked his fingers behind his head and stretched, smiling.

This was fantastic, he felt like he was calling in the Justice League; he was DI Lestrade bringing a case to Holmes and Watson; he was Professor bloody X calling the X-Men! All of the above and more!

True, Tyra Shaw was playing dumb (and wouldn’t play his Subject RE game like Eunice Bakely did), and he had more than just an inkling that it would be hard getting her into this… but he thought he had an ally in Eunice.

A very threatening ally, but an ally nonetheless.

He’d hacked their records and knew they were both smart (and oh was he thankful that he’d taken so many computer and programming courses and knew how to hide his trail while snooping: possibly the only thing that saved him from being searched for in return), and he knew it was a bit… impolite to hack their records, but hey, just because he imagined Jones as a good guy, that didn’t mean he was.

He could help actual criminals!

In fact, the reason why he’d hacked into Eunice Bakely’s account so much was because she’d mentioned shanking him, and, well, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

There was a commotion outside of his door, and upon investigation he found his oldest barreling past in only his pants, two of Sherry’s bras clutched in each of his hands and trailing after him like streamers.

“Charlie get back here!”

Hank bent and quickly scooped his son up to twirl him around, dipping him upside down with a playful roar. Charlie dissolved into giggles and dropped the bras.

“Aha, what do we have here, hmmm? An Underling, obviously! And Underling who steals Underthings! Do you know what we do with those?” He asked his wife, now standing at the door, grin on his face.

She had their youngest in her arms, colorful socks rolled all the way up her legs and arms, and Erik was clutching the back of her legs with a huge grin on his face. He had superman panties on his head.

Sherry put on a wide-eyed look.

“Why no, I don’t! What do we do with Underlings who steal Underthings?”

“Why, we hang them up by their toes! Grraaaaaaah!” He maneuvered Charlie so he could hold him upside down by his ankles and let him wiggle and shout.

“It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me! It was Erik!”

Hank righted him and gave him a considering look, shooting a glance to his brother and back to him like he was trying to see how he could have made such a mistake.

“I don’t know,” he waffled, “I don’t see much of a resemblance…” Erik collapsed to the ground behind Sherry, overcome with giggles, so Hank threw Charlie over one shoulder and used his other arm to pick Erik up and settle him on his hip. He resettled Charlie on his hip, craning his head in either direction to exaggerate comparing the two. His two boys were as different as Day and Night in his eyes, but Charlie loved trying to use their twin status to get out of trouble, and he wondered if they were going to have problems with this when they were at school… their differences were obvious to Sherry and him, but

“I don’t know hun, for all we know they could be partners in crime…” Sherry said, shifting Toni on her hip so she could pull back up her socks.

The socks were the most recent attempt at getting her to stop putting her fingers in her mouth to ease the ache in her gums.

Toni still scratched at them (because she ironically refused to use a dummy), but with the socks on her hands she was just drooling and rubbing the material against the gums rather than scratching them with her scarily sharp nails.

Really, if Sherry hadn’t said they had to switch their fandom up, their daughter would probably be Vicki for Victor Creed instead of Toni for Tony Stark—or Tori, Tori would have been a good nickname for Victoria. But they’d decided Iron Man, Tony-themed name if she got her mummy’s dark hair, Pepper-themed name if she got his red hair.

He thought they might move onto the Harry Potter fandom for their next one, whenever that happens.

A small hand planted itself on his cheek and pushed, Charlie twisting back so he could hang his head upside down and groan while Erik buried his face in the crease of his neck and laughed, blowing raspberries into his skin.

Devious child.

Well, he WAS going to tell Sherry about what he’d been glued to the computer for, but…

He hiked them both up in his arms until both were hanging over his shoulders, and moved past his wife with a put-upon sigh.

“You know, there’s only _one_ thing for it…”

Sherry nodded, lips pursed in an attempt to keep her face straight. “Yup. Only one thing.”

Tiny fists pounded on his back, shrieks of “no!” and “Dad!” dragged out to several syllables as he made his way to the bathroom.

“Yes!” He called out with a grin, “You must be cleansed! It’s Bath time!”

He could update Sherry on the Jones Situation later.

“The Power of L’Oreal compels you! Mwahaha!”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

When Eunice made it home, she fed Siegfried his mouse and made a beeline for her Viola.

She needed to think.

After the e-mails she’d been dealing with today, both work and Jones related, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Well, with the Jones ones she didn’t know if she should be laughing harder at this HM guy or herself, because seriously?

The guy was either a 12-year-old tech genius (because she knew _exactly_ how hard it was to hack into her company) or else one of those basement-dwelling nerds…

Only he had a wife and kids.

Apparently.

(She really didn’t know if she should believe him on that or not)

He had a wife and kids and probably lived with them in his parents basement.

Again, if he wasn’t like 12 or something.

For fuck’s sakes.

She let the sound of Vivaldi wash over her senses, her fingers moving automatically against the strings, her bow moving wit the tune, and her audience, as usual, Siegfried in his tank.

She liked to think it helped with his digestion.

So then. She was the one to set the place, having chosen the Bakery that she visited almost weekly for their sundried-tomato bread, and though she didn’t know what HM looked like outside of his nerdy choice in shirts, knew even less about this other character, Tyra or whatever, aside from her poor deflection skills, and…

Well. She knew very little about Jones, but this meet up was all about finding out more.

She didn’t know HM, but he’d already shown that he was creepily able to hack into company records, so she had no reason to doubt that he would have done his best to find out as much as possible on Jones…

All she really had to share on him was the e-mail he’d sent and her thoughts on his asshole personality.

Oh, and her sparkling personality.

Let’s not forget about that.

She rolled her eyes, and moved onto Bach.

Bach wasn’t complicated, not really.

Because Bach was Bach, and she needed a little of that right then.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Tyra debated sending another e-mail asking what, exactly HM meant, but feared that the only way to get answers would be to go to this meeting on Saturday.

She’d been weary when HM had gotten in contact with her at first, but the response to her deflection had been so full of… _something_ that she’d been unable to think clearly.

She’d attempted looking up what he’d been talking about, but a search for ‘Klingon’ had her too frightened to continue to look up the other things he’d mentioned.

What was Klingon? At first she’d thought it was some sort of verb or adjective, perhaps a poorly named person, but in her search through Google it had shown an entirely foreign language and what she was certain was a cult.

She crossed herself, wishing for the first time in a long while that she could have the same solid belief in the gesture as her Aunt.

Now she was half certain that it was some sort of pagan god, or another name for Satan, and also worried that perhaps Klingon was an action.

How would one Klingon another person?

She didn’t know, but it sounded violent.

An attempt to find what Klingon might look like, as an attack, had her more afraid of meeting with this HM than before.

Google Images showed that this Klingon either had something to do with self-mutilating black men, or else perhaps they were the victims of Klingon.

(it now occurred to her that Klingon might be a poison)

Should this actually be a cult, it was entirely possible that Klingon was the demonic god they worshipped.

(She had found reference to people known as ‘Trekkies’ but had feared for what she would find on them)

She felt fear clutch tight in her throat, and clenched her hands into fists.

No. No, she would work past her fear in this.

She would go, she would be prepared for the worst, and she would do her Aunt proud.

She would not let Klingon defeat her.

She’d said no to drugs, she could say no to Klingon.

Besides, she felt that in such a public setting HM would be unwilling to attack her outright.

Unless the bakery was a front for their cult, of course, but she refused to think on it.

(Much.)

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Tosh reread the mysterious file of information on the Thames House Kids (or Thames House _Children_ , as Owen was insisting on calling them… she thought he was just looking for an excuse to talk about ‘ _THC’_ in front of the UNIT Interns) almost daily trying to figure out what was so familiar about it.

She spent some time in the Archives (Oh Ianto) trying to figure it out, looking over old case files and thinking she was _this close_ to figuring it out when, a week later, it hits her.

_Ianto._

Elation swept her up even as she choked on tears; because _of course_ it’s Ianto.

He looked over everyone’s reports and corrected them, had his particular way of writing in everything in the Archives, _why hadn’t she thought of it before_?

Of course Ianto would find a way to get into the system, of course he would find everything they would need—she didn’t know how he managed it all, but he’d always had a different way at looking at problems than she did—and he would give multiple sources.

She felt like smacking herself for not seeing it sooner.

She hurried to get Owen and Gwen on the coms, wondering how Ianto was doing, where he was, and, most importantly, why he hadn’t found his way back to Torchwood yet.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto hacks into the CCTV and finds that, yes; there are a number of Thugs obviously patrolling the area, a small stack of papers in their hands.

Ianto assumed they were pictures from the way the Thugs checked them against a number of dark-haired males they come across, and goes to scream into a pillow with as much dignity as he can afford.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Hank doesn’t manage to find time to talk to Sherry about the Jones Situation until the next night, what with Toni managing to cut her gums again and Charlie convincing Erik to help him stage a murder in the basement… it wasn’t real, but it was real enough to a pair of 5 year olds who know how to get into a bucket of red paint.

“Someone’s been murdered in the basement, and we can’t find the body!” Charlie had said, red fingers hidden behind his back. Erik had nodded, his hands free of even a red tinge, but he had just as many paint smudges on his clothing…

Hank consoled himself with the thought that at least one of his kids thought to wash his hands of evidence before coming to him with claims of murder… It would have been convincing if not for the cherry red colour, the smell of paint, and the fact that none of the ‘blood’ splatters were far from the upended can of red paint.

Honestly, to think he would raise kids who would provide him with ‘caught you red-handed’ material.

It suddenly occurred to him that should he ever use that phrase with them they will think he’s referring to this incident—anyone using that phrase will have his children looking at them with how-do-you-know-that distrust.

Brilliant, really, it was.

Hank grinned to himself and led Sherry to the office, and let her read through his messages with Eunice Bakely.

(He read over her shoulder and thought that he’d defended his honor fairly well)

“I also got in contact with Tyra Shaw, and she tried brushing me off but she’s coming, too. I’m not too sure what kind of time I’ll be making, so…”

Sherry was frowning.

“You’ll have to take Toni with you. I have an extended toddler yoga class at 11, and a follow up play date with Amanda after lunch… Oh, and pick up some bread while you’re at the bakery, and something small for the kids.”

Hank was about to protest, only now remembering that _oh yeah, my wife teaches Toddler Yoga weekends_ , when he catches the grin on her face.

“Yes hun, you really _can’t_ shank a man with a baby. Just don’t use her as a shield, and be home in time for her nap. Oh, and use the extra thick socks, won’t you? It’s supposed to be chilly this weekend.” She pats his cheek with fond exasperation and heads to get ready for bed.

Hank wonders why it surprises him so often how awesome his wife is.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He can’t find the energy to be annoyed or amused at Jack—Jackie who starts making chattering noises at him from her box, amused or curious or annoyed he didn’t know, and he has half a mind ( ~~to learn to speak cat~~ ) to smother himself.

Just bury his face in pillows, tangle up in blankets and be smothered and have it all over with.

He enjoys thinking on the possibility for a long time before reality catches up to him.

The reality that he would just wake up afterwards, miserable and starved.

He remembers, once upon a time, where random thoughts to how he could potentially die were shaken with the reality that he has things to do, people he loved, and not with the futility of offing himself.

Of course, he thinks of Jack and Gwen and Rhiannon and knows this strange second chance is not to be wasted, but he wished he could lie convincingly to himself.

He wished he could stand to believe in the lie for longer than it takes him to figure it out.

(He remembers wishing for a convincing lie, ages and ages ago now, wishing to be able to believe despite knowing.)

Gods did he need a project to take his mind off things.

He did, technically, already have one on his mind, but there was only so many hours to devote to depressing himself in one day, contemplating how to find out where any hard copies of his repeated-deaths at The Shooting Range and how to get them without being caught and subjected to—to—to—

Ianto shook his head and got up to go to the kitchen.

Just thinking about it always made him feel a yawning hunger wake up inside of him, hardly a fraction of what it had actually been, but it still—still—

He intentionally dragged his feet, feeling the pull of the carpet against his toes and pulled out the cast iron pan—

Ouch!

Ianto shook his hand, his fingers tingling slightly from the shock.

He hated it when he accidentally shocked himself—

Oh.

_Oh._

_There’s_ a project.

He grinned, and pulled out the ingredients to start making Beef Stroganoff.

Ianto didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it earlier.

_It’s perfect._

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto is stopped in a small alcove, trying his best to look like he’s fiddling with his mobile, hoping that in this sort of a setting his Mini Hub would look like a mobile, and attempting to track the Thugs without looking like he is.

He’d managed to make it to the hardware store and get a good deal of what he needed to put everything together, though there was distressingly little there that would actually go into his project… he thought he could probably find at least the component parts at the gadgets shop near…

His thought trailed off when he noticed that a group of girls were clustered together.

This wasn’t strange. Actually, from what he remembered from being a teen (though he was damnably one right now, even at 17), teenaged girls clustering together was more than normal; it was expected.

What caught him off guard, however, was that they were staring at him, manic grins on their faces.

He made the mistake of making eye contact, and as a group they burst into giggles and whispered conversation, all of them talking at once to each other while looking at him, and oh, right, this would be why he’d hated being a teenager.

It wasn’t until college that he really got a clue about girls, or, as he preferred to think, girls had finally cottoned on that guys were uncomfortable when they did this group-giggling-whisper thing.

He darted his eyes to the Thugs, at the moment turned from him, and back to the girls to see them moving on from the whisper-giggle thing and onto the nodding-to-each-other-giggle thing. Gods that was another terrifying thing, and now they wer moving towards him, what were they even—

“Hey, d’you mind if we get a pic with you or something?”

He couldn’t control it.

His eyebrow went up in disbelief, and that sent them all into another fit of giggling, and a flush crept up his cheeks and turned the tips of his ears red.

Gods, this was another thing—you couldn’t control your bodily functions around groups like this.

They’d corner you and your face would be doing strange things, you’d be flushing and sweating like you’d run a marathon, unexpected boners popped up, and when you were leaving them you’d develop the strangest way of walking and probably trip with their giggles following all the way into your nightmares.

He thankfully didn’t have sudden boners to worry about, and he was sweating a normal amount (he thought), but the lack of control over his facial queues was more than a little distressing. They were looking at him, expectant.

Oh, right, they asked him a question.

“…Pardon?”

They grinned those wild, manic grins again, shared a look, and their apparent spokesperson said

“You’re just so Ianto!”

The other eyebrow went up.

“Pardon?”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Several photos—and the Thugs making their way down another street, not noticing Ianto in the gaggle of girls he’d somehow attracted—later, and wished he could fully comprehend what had just happened.

He was bidding The Gaggle goodbye when Spokesperson asked what his name was.

Unsure of what to say (and wasn’t it a strange time when one couldn’t figure out how to answer such a simple question), he pursed his lips a moment.

“Just—just call me Jones.”

That had resulted in a couple of giggles and squeals of delight, and he hurried away with his bags, thinking that perhaps running from Thugs would be the better option to being put into a situation like that again.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Of course, Ianto almost immediately gets shot after that, only having enough time to look at the spray of his brains on the walls and grab up his bags and run for it.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

They kill him another two times before he can lose them, both times with them coming too close to catching him for comfort, and Ianto is starved when he makes it back to his Base.

He’s too hungry to properly get annoyed at himself for not coming up with a proper name yet, but he does spare a thought to how irritating it was getting open a can—abandons it to rip open a package of Hob Nobs and eat.

And eats and eats and eats, and then he has the patience to finish opening the can.

He makes himself peanut butter sandwiches while he waits for his water to boil, heats the kraft dinner, strains it, adds canned tuna, cream of mushroom soup, diced carrots and doesn’t have the patience for real cheese to melt in it so he bites off pieces to go with his delicious mess.

When he can finally stop eating, he cleans, because there’s cookie crumbs over the floor, carrot peel on the counters, tuna juice mixed in, and dishes always needed washing.

He thinks he needs to buy more groceries.

He thinks he should get a better can opener, looking at the ragged cut on his palm courtesy of the can’s edge.

He thinks perhaps he should go take a nap, though, first.

Decides, in the end, to watch old Disney cartoons on the large screens in his Main Area.

It’s enough.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Except that he encounters Thugs in his areas much more often.

And that’s just shit.

He needs to deal with them.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Saturday doesn’t rush, but it does seem to hurry to get here, so it doesn’t seem like such a wait when Hank is getting Toni ready for the trip.

He has her baby bag handy—all the One Piece flags displayed on the dark fabric proudly—and she’s freshly napped and dressed in the red Iron Man Onesie that Sherry had amazingly silk-screened into existence, long red and gold striped socks pulled up high on her arms and legs, and he coo’s over her adorableness before putting on her Captain America Shield Hat.

(Why? Because Sherry was into _that_ part of the fandom, and had somehow sucked him into it.)

Of course, their outfits don’t match, Marvel vs DC, but who cared?

Besides, people who matched outfits were creepy outside of an Expo.

He can take the car because Sherry would need the van with their two X-Boys, and it’s much easier to get a parking space than he figured on so when he goes in, 10 minutes early as he is, it’s a surprise to see Eunice Bakely at one of the back tables, Naruto-Orange bag settled into the chair beside her.

Her eyes drift past him, then resettle on Toni in her Iron Man outfit, and to him in his Batman shirt, and he waves.

“Hi,” he says, once he’s close enough to the table to not be shouting, “You’re Eunice Bakely. Old Lady name, by the way. Thought you should know. I’m Hank.”

She’s still looking at Toni, and he grins, knowing she’s adorable. Who’s his little crime fighter? Why yes she is.

“And you’re crazy. You brought a _kid_?”

Hank makes an exaggerated frown face.

“Not _a_ kid. _My_ kid. This is Toni… isn’t she adorable?” He jiggles Toni lightly, smiling at her gurgles of delight.

“And you can’t shank a da-ad, no you can’t shank a da-ddy,” he sings lightly, giving Toni an Eskimo kiss. Na-na na bo-bo, you can’t shank me.

She gave him a disbelieving look.

“You brought your kid because you can’t shank a guy with a baby?”

He gives her a look.

“No, you shouldn’t even try shanking a guy with a baby… you can shank a guy with a _knife_ , but you shouldn’t do it if he has a baby. That would just be wrong.”

That startles a laugh out of her, and he pulls a seat out for himself because he thinks he just made a new friend.

That was usually how he made friends after all; startle them into it.

BOO!

AH! Oh, okay, we’re friends.

That was how it worked.

He pulled the socks back up Toni’s arms so she couldn’t gnaw holes in the sagging fabric so easily, and checked his watch.

Nearly noon.

Now where was Tyra at?

“Is that the other girl? The one looking like she’s trying to seem inconspicuous?”

He shifted to look at the door, and yes, there was Tyra Shaw, her hair covered with a shawl and dark sunglasses on her face… she had the flaps of her jacket pulled high to conceal her face, and Hank waved.

“Tyra! Over here!”

She startled, spinning, and awkwardly made her way over.

As soon as she was within arms length of the table, she darted one hand out, a spray in hand and brandished it threateningly.

“N-now listen here, I came because you asked me to. I, well I do not want any trouble, there’s no need to threaten—”

“You _threatened_ her?” Eunice hissed at him. He looked back at her, baffled, then back to Tyra.

“What—”

“Well,” she seems to amend, “I didn’t understand most of it—I mean, I don’t know what Klingon is, or any of the other stuff—but it sounded threatening, and I just—”

She stopped, eyebrows going high over the dark sunglasses.

“Is that a baby?”

Hank squinted at the spray still held out threateningly, and responded with

“Is that mouthwash?”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Hank managed to convince Tyra that he wasn’t part of a cult (“Well, not really, it’s actually called a ‘fandom’…”) with help from Eunice (“Shut _up_ already! She’s confused enough as it is!”), and that he wasn’t going to attack her (“Certainly not with a baby—that’s more Eunice’s area—” “Shut up shut up _shut up_! I don’t use babies as weapons! Now drop it already!” “What? I most certainly will _not_ drop Toni!” “You know what I meant!”), and got her to sit down.

The waitress came over to refresh their drinks and take Tyra’s order, and Hank jiggled Toni on his leg while Eunice explained in the most basic and ridiculously simplified way what Hank had been talking about. He made a face at Toni, not liking that he’d been shushed from the conversation and not allowed to contribute outside of saying what he’d written her.

Even less than that when Tyra showed Eunice the message on her phone.

She was still giving him an unsure look, but she’d lost the scarf on her head and the shades, and her collar wasn’t popped, so that was at least a plus.

“Now that you know I wasn’t going to flagellate you or try to induct you into a cult, can we get down to the matter at hand?”

“And what exactly is that?” Tyra looked at him like he was about to spew gibberish or else try chewing the table… honestly, and this was coming from a woman who thought Klingon was dangerous. Hah!

“The Jones Situation, of course! We need to figure out what we know and what needs finding out!”

“Oh boy…” Eunice sighed like she wasn’t just as curious about Jones as he was.

He made a face at her.

(He was rather adept at faces, having three kids. He knew it was a good one, too, since Toni gurgled at it.)

“Why are you so set on finding him, anyway?” Tyra’s mouth tightened in distaste. “Why should we even trust him?”

“Oh c’mon, he’s like Bat—he’s like Robin Hood! You do know who Robin Hood is, right?” He peered at her suspiciously.

She flushed beet red.

“Of course I do! I just don’t trust him… Robin Hood was a thief, after all.”

He was tempted to throw his hands in the air, but doing so would not only disturb Toni, but also leave her sock-clad hands free to make their way back into her mouth.

Eunice sighed again, loudly, and fiddled with the cutlery at the table.

“Look, how about this: why don’t we figure out what we _do_ know, and what we _don’t_ know, and then figure out what happens from there, alright?”

Hank heaved his own sigh, matched by a smaller one from Tyra, and agreed.

“ _Fine_ , I suppose I can deal with your lack of curiosity for now.”

Tyra gave him an unhappy look, but agreed.

“Good,” Eunice sat back, butter knife twirling in her fingers, “Now what do we have?”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The information they did have on Jones was very little compared to what they wanted to know—or rather, what Eunice and Hank wanted to know, because Tyra was being a spoil sport about everything.

Most of what they had was from Hank, too, and Eunice was quick to point out that a great deal of what he had was supposition, guesswork at best even though it was easy to see Jones’s hand in things.

They also had a list—Tyra’s suggestion, surprisingly enough—of things that they wanted to find out about Jones.

So far it went like this:

The Jones Situation

-       _Who is he?_ (“Or she, for that matter, or even they” “Wow, you’re really paranoid, aren’t you?” “Leave her alone, she’s contributing a valid point.”)

-       _Why he’s doing shit?_ (Eunice’s hand was in this one)

-       _Why is he not more well known?_ (“Because he’s a super spy Robin Hood!” “Shut up, that’s not an answer.”)

-       _What else has he done?_ (“Shut up, we mean that we know for a _fact_ that he’s done, not your conspiracy theory list.”)

-       _Where is his ~~Batcave~~ base of operations? _ (Hank was no longer allowed to write)

-       _Where does he get the money_ (Inherited? Stolen? Invested? Worked for?)

-       _How to get in contact with him_ (because obviously his e-mail wasn’t a reliable way)

And, upon Tyra’s insistence

-       _What does he get from this?_

Hank wanted to say something on this, but knew that it was entirely likely that Jones might just turn around and blackmail them—in fact, if you put your Mob goggles on, the situation looked exactly like that.

He just didn’t think that even Mob Goggles could turn the mild-mannered but uuber polite e-mail from Jones into a blackmailing situation.

His pocket buzzed, and he checked it only to curse.

“Fuzzbucket!”

(He does have a baby in his lap.)

“I’m going to be late getting home if I don’t leave soon…”

Both Eunice and Tyra check the time, Eunice on her watch and Tyra her phone, and they looked as surprised as he was at the time. They’d been at this for a while now.

“Look, why don’t we just meet up next week and give it another go? We could—”

The bell above the door jangled, and a young man in a waistcoat and tie came into the store, looking harried. He moved quickly to the back of the store—close to their table, but also close to the selection of bread displayed in cubbies—and Hank couldn’t help falling silent.

He didn’t think it was paranoid to stop talking about Jones in front of strangers (or at least strangers not involved with Jones), and actually thought it was common sense to avoid talking about Jones or embezzling (even when it was cleverly code-named ‘stealing the dough’), and from the studied silence from the other two he thought they agreed.

The guy kept checking the window, then down to his… phone, yeah, that must be a phone, then back to the selection of bread.

Poor kid, probably sent out to get bread for the family, and didn’t know what to choose.

“Hey, you’ve been here before, right? Help the kid out.” He nudged Eunice.

She gave him an annoyed look, but turned to the kid anyway. Hank remembered that he needed to pickup bread and a couple of snacks for the kids before he left, too.

“Hey, you want a suggestion?”

The kid jumped, startled, and Hank saw that he must be one of the kids getting into that Thames House Look.

It was a trend going around since Ianto Jones and his Man died in Thames, kids either becoming impeccably dressed with suits and waistcoats, or else decking themselves out with Wartime regalia.

It wasn’t just the kids, either; just the other day he saw a guy wandering about in a Hussar jacket. Hank had to admit it was cool, but all the same he couldn’t help but see the creepiness of starting a fashion trend after two guys who died on tape.

The kid glanced outside again, and back to Eunice.

“Pardon? I just—oh, yes please, if you don’t mind.”

“Try the sundried tomato, it’s amazing.” She gestured to the cubicle, three loaves left, and the kid nodded his thanks, looking it over.

It must have passed the test, because he picked up one of the loaves, checked outside again, and seemed to relax. He turned to their table with a smile.

“Thank you for your assistance.” His smile turned slightly flirtatious. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy this immensely.”

Hank nodded back, smirking, and Eunice waved him off, flushed. “Oh off with you, shoo! I don’t need any of that from you!” Hank grinned at her blushing. Aww, tough girl could blush so prettily!

Blue eyes twinkled, and Hank thought that the Ianto Jones look suited the kid.

“All the same, you have my thanks anyway,” he said deliberately misunderstanding, and turning away with a parting wink.

Hank grinned at Eunice until she smacked his arm.

“What?”

Hank fluttered his eyelashes at her. “Do you think you could suggest something for _me_?”

“Oh, get off it! You’re married!” but she was grinning.

“I may have given the key to my heart away already, but the lock on my stomach has a ton of spares to hand out.”

“You two are utterly mad, aren’t you?”

Hank looked to Tyra, and she was looking at them with wide eyes.

“What?”

“You two are mad. You use insane references, bring babies to crazy meet-ups, and you’re both—you’re both bonkers!”

She stood and started gathering her things, pulling cash from her wallet and laying it out on the table.

“Look, I’ve told you all I know about Jones, now I want you to leave me out of it.” Hank opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand.

“No. No, I want nothing to do with this. I want nothing to do with Jones. I want nothing to do with you,” she looked at Eunice, “and I most certainly want _nothing_ to do with _you_ ,” she pointed at Hank, “so just leave me alone. Okay? Okay.” She turned and stalked from the bakery café.

Hank blinked, and looked at Eunice.

She looked just as lost as he did.

“So… do you want to back out, too?”

She gave him an unimpressed look and sighed.

“…Look. I’m interested in finding this Jones guy, but finding him can’t take over my life. You can’t let it take over yours, either.” She said, giving a significant look to a sleepy Toni. “So I’m in, but we work around our schedules, okay? We don’t schedule around this… whatever it is.”

Hank nods. “The Jones Situation. And I get it… I just really want to find this guy. And I don’t think we should worry too much about Tyra… I mean, she’ll come to her senses soon enough.” He grins.

“Also, I was serious. Can you give me a few suggestions? What’s a little snack to give to two 5-year-old boys and a good bread for the Missus?”

Eunice laughs, and directs him to the pastry cream puffs with a grin.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto comes back from getting groceries (which he shouldn’t have to do so often if the Thugs didn’t keep finding and killing him and if he didn’t have to fuel a younger body so much more) and some… _extra_ supplies to find that someone put new graffiti on his building.

Fantastic.

He looked it over, only a little annoyed, and sighed.

He pulled down the fire escape ladder, thinking that at least they only did it on the main level (another thing he needed to get: a proper lock for the roof door), and at least it looked interesting—none of that chicken scratch or bubble lettered nonsense.

He did wonder briefly why ‘Blaidd Drwg’ seemed familiar to him, but when it wasn’t immediately forthcoming he put it out of his mind.

Instead he focuses on putting together a rough replica of the Taser Gun he was used to from torchwood.

Jack had shown him way back when how to fix it should it ever get broken, and as a result Ianto had learned quite a bit more about electronics than he ever thought he would need to know, as well as knowing what parts would be needed to make an entirely new one.

It was something he was taking advantage of now.

He’d had to stop by a number of electronics stores, dodging through alleyways and across buildings rooftops to avoid any interaction with the Thugs still hanging about, even stopping in popular shops to lose them—ah.

With that thought he pulled the loaf of bread he’d gotten from the bakery and cut himself a slice.

Mmm, it was as good as it looked.

Cutting another two slices to carry, he moved to the far side of the room, to where he’d privately dubbed his Workbench, as it was where he’d been putting together the basic components of his Stun Gun.

He had the rest of what he needed, including a children’s squirt gun to work out the covering.

He just needed to finish putting it together and he would…

Well, he wouldn’t stop running from the Thugs, because they always came in groups of twos and threes, and Ianto had grown out of foolhardy cockiness ages ago (hah), but at least he would have more going for him should things get too close than his hand-to-hand combat training.

Good as it was, if they caught him with his bodyweight down, he needed some sort of backup, else it would be too easy to just pick him up and chuck him in the van.

Hell, Ianto was about 10 right then and he thought it would be pretty easy to take him down with one Thug, never mind the partnered team-up he usually had to deal with.

Ianto pulled his thoughts together and sat down to work. If he worked late, he would have a tester ready by tonight.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Tosh frowned, and gestured Gwen over.

“We won’t be able to hold it off for much longer,” she said.

“It isn’t like when he went with the Doctor… it’s been 4 months already, and we can’t keep hoping that Jack will come back.”

Gwen settled herself, hand on her now very pregnant belly, and read through the e-mail. Tosh thought she would have to go on bedrest soon, and wondered how quickly she could have a monitoring system set up in Gwen and Rhys’ house… really, she should have had it up ages ago.

She saw what Tosh did; that the Crown was interested in getting answers from Jack Harkness, with the subtext that they suspected that Torchwood Three was hiding something and until they could talk with Jack, they were prepared to make things difficult.

Gwen reread the message and stared for a long time before nodding.

“Tell them what’s happened.”

“All of it?”

“… Tell them what they need to know. Tell them…. Tell them that Jack Harkness is out of reach.” Tosh winced, knowing how true it was and not liking it. There was a lot about this situation she didn’t like.

“Just let them know he’s gone. I’ll send a message myself that he’s left me in charge and… Well. We’ll just have to see how things go from there.”

As Tosh wrote out the message, she couldn’t help but feel that this was it. This was what would make Jack’s absence permanent. There was no coming back from this.

She hesitated a moment before sending it off, lips pursed.

Clicked.

And he was gone.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Ianto shifted his grip, aiming at an invisible target and thought, _yes; this will do nicely._

He’d fixed the bugs (expected, really, what with him making it from scratch), made sure to have a box of spare parts on hand, and he’d sewn a holster of sorts into the inside of his jacket—something he felt particularly inspired in, as a regular holster would draw more attention.

There was a chime, and he grinned to himself.

That was Mini, with a list of likely places Boss Man would be keeping the hard copies of his time in the Shooting Range… as soon as he got rid of those, he would be able to focus entirely on getting back to Jack and Gwen.

Back to Torchwood.

He still felt a twinge of guilt for leaving the rebuilding of the Hub to them, but there were extenuating circumstances and…

It wasn’t exactly a walk in the park on his end, either.

He had Mini (his name for Mainframe while working through his Mini-Hub) pull up the locations on a map, and made note to buy his own to put up on one wall—he couldn’t always have it up on screen, and he could get the same visual with colored pins.

Hacking into the CCTV, he noted that all were guarded.

Some more than others, but that could be for any number of reasons… he would have to set Mini up to look for where Boss Man would most likely be; he didn’t want to be within a ten block radius of him if he could help it.

Another chime had him frowning, confused, and turning his attention from the CCTV.

_What could… ah!_

He smiled, relieved. Mini had finally found information on what was happening with Jack!

“Now where have you been hiding, Jack…” he murmured, a weight off his chest.

He had to hand it to him; in the time he’s been gone, he’d apparently gotten much better at hide-and-seek… He grinned, thoughts inevitably turning to naked hide-and-seek.

No doubt Jack fond a way to cheat _this_ time, too.

The grin slowly faded as he read through the sequence of e-mails, heart suddenly loud in the silence of his Flat.

No.

No.

Jack couldn’t be gone; he couldn’t.

It just wasn’t—

No.

No.

Ianto shook his head, face frozen into a mask, and again, and again, and again…

“No.” He said it again.

“No. He can’t be. H-he can’t be gone. He just.”

He went with the Doctor. That must be it.

That must be—

It felt like his brain stalled.

No.

Because if Jack was gone… what was Torchwood?

Gwen?

Gwen was Torchwood?

He just—

No.

Ianto pushed away from the monitors, needin to be moving—

Banged his shin on the low table he’d set up, and he kicked at it, cursing, because no.

No.

No.

No.

Jack couldn’t be gone, he just—

Maybe he was—

Ianto’s knees collapsed underneath him.

He felt like his strings had been cut.

Because if Jack was gone… what was Ianto going to do?

What was…

His mind stalled again.

Restarted, with difficulty, one question prevalent.

Now what?

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, everyone go and give kudos to Randompersonofdoom, she’s been fantastic and dealing with my e-mailing her a lot and my bugging her with things that are ENTIRELY off topic, and seriously she did a fantastic job with the Faery scene it makes me so happy and have I mentioned how much I love it?  
> Still so excited about it and THERE’S MORE TO COME!  
> (Gah, and sorry in advance, I have no clue how you’re going to do the e-mails… I’m rooting for you!)  
> Sigh…  
> So, tell me what you think?  
> If I haven’t mentioned before, this is a multi-part story. You won’t be seeing Jack until the next story, and the only reason why I do this is because of the rating change that’s going to be happening. I should probably change it already for the Ianto-being-shot-repeatedly thing (maybe)…  
> And, oh yeah, this story is done… Surprise!  
> Again, it’s multi-part-ed, so if you don’t feel like subscribing to the series (to Ao3-ers)… well, you can do the same thing that FFn dot net-ers are going to be able to do, and wait for me post the last (HAH!) chapter, 8/8, which will basically be “Hey, the next part is up, check it out!”  
> Thanks again to Randompersonofdoom, because along with being amazing and fantastic and all that jazz, she also helped me out with the title of the next part.  
> So look forward to “Too Tired to Wink” (or not, whatever you feel like, but you did just make it through 70k with me, so why don’t you stay a little longer, hmm???), and send kudos to Randompersonofdoom, and love and happiness and unicorns doing the time warp on Rainbows and whatnot, and I’ll see you in a bit :)  
> So yeah, this is the end of AIWU… Prepare for T3W or 3TW or TTTW or whatever ends up being the short form… it might just be called Ludo because that’s the artist the title is from, so… :S  
> Any opinion as to the short form?
> 
> EDIT: Also, Chapter 1 is FREAKING DIFFICULT TO WRITE. Just having some difficulty here, have all of chapter 2 done and part of 3, but chapter one... well. *le frustrated scream*  
> Kudos again to RandomPersonofDoom who's been amazingly helpful and supportive with my writing difficulties, and distractions of other story ideas, and yeah, general frustration at first chapters. (May 22/13)


	8. Dun dun dun DONE

So hey all, just thought you might want to know that the next story, Too Tired To Wink (aka T3W for shortform, to this stories AIWU)...

Well it's up. 

...HUZZAH!

(check out the **bold** -ed stuff below to get to the story-related stuff you might need to know)

Wow it's weird, I feel like I have all this space to talk about anything, anything at all, but a great deal of the people reading this are just about to click away to find the next story, but for those of you looking for more in this chapter,....

Well, THANK YOU! Even if you haven't reviewed, just knowing that you've made it this far is amazing and has given me all the warm fuzzies in the world. 

Thank you particularly to [RandomPersonOfDoom](../../../users/randompersonofdoom/pseuds/randompersonofdoom) for making the amazing, still in progress Podfic for this story, you've been amazing and have had me rediscovering my own story for a multitude of reasons... seriously, if you haven't checke it out, do so. 

She's amazing awesomesauce, and full of amazing things like sunshine and rainbows and unicorns fox-trotting over rainbows and suchlike, and she did such a good job with pacing and tone and the FAERIES! Don't even get me started on the Faeries. She's just..

Gah. 

Also thanks to Blackkat, because she (assuming she's a she here, if not, I'm sorry for infringing on your manliness, you manly studmuffin of testosterone you) helped me through the agony of CoE with so many fix-its, and has so many unique ideas and a certain way of writing and... 

Yeah, if you're reading this, "Hi, and thank you! And I wish I had more to say other than this and you're an amazing writer and I'm just so amazied that you can write on your ipod or whatever like you mentioned in one story, and yeah, you're just awesome *thumbs up*!"

**I also feel like I should mention that while this story is Rated T, the second installment is a second installment for a number of reasons...**

First of all, because this story was getting way too damn long, and I still have so much left to write. Serously, this is edging up into the 70k mark, and right now I'm probably only a little ways past the half way mark. Maybe more, depends on how things pace themselves. 

Secondly... Well, A certain character is coming back, and not even the one you're thinking of, and of course certain things will be happening, and yeah, this is my way of saying that there will be some sexual content. 

Not Rated T. Rated M. 

I don't know if there's going to be much more of it beyond this, but if there is, and it's not strictly story-related and plot-important, then I'll probably make it into a one-shot extra, like "If you want sex go [HERE](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/BCmFnVVCQAA18g8.jpg)" (link IS appropriate for work btw) with links and whatever. 

If anyone has any thoughts or ideas or whatever for the story, feel free to comment, or PM me if you're on fanfiction dot net, or... I dunno. 

GET IN CONTACT. Do it, I like people and I swear I don't have internet herpes. I had it checked. 

Also, I now have a [tumblr](http://doodled93.tumblr.com/)... I avoided it for so long, and now I have it... :( I still don't know how it works, aside from teh glory of scrolling and following everyone, so if you, I dunno, 'ask' me something, or whatever....? Again. I don't know.

Okay, hope you all enjoyed, and thank you all again for making it this far :) Much appreciated, and thanks for all the support!

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] And I Wake Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/750779) by [randompersonofdoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randompersonofdoom/pseuds/randompersonofdoom)




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